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When you go home nobody knows how to ask you where to begin - not out of ignorance, but the distance between the life you’d lead in Edmonton and the heat of the doldrums. With four hours left to go on the airplane that you're on, think back to years ago before you’d gone so far away from the prairie chill that made you, into the bone, someone who maintained her silence by keeping in motion. The taxi takes you home, crossing the Saskatchewan: half mast on the legislature. You've been teaching English to the rich and idle spawn who could only know about all the things that you have in common. Even in the west money looks like a shabby chesterfield and tarnished copper. Nothing has changed. Your mother even said that she might take back her old name. You miss her more and more but how long has it been since you've seen her? And then? Looking up at high windows, trying to make sense of the end. How could you explain a eulogy for someone you know mostly as fame? Speak to the microphone. The voice you hear echoing is no longer your own...
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2. |
Eight sails
05:40
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Three AM, just off the strip: soft in the pupils, walking back to the kip in hostel country. I'm drunk and diluted, I've got my mind on the taste of the gutter just off the strip. Just out of time when I look to the river and see eight sails and fifty cannon silently floating up the water. Behind mosquito screens, in flickering light, in front of my eyes: marked with the name of an intemperate man inside of her thighs, under the skin. O Seeräuber, O little diver, cursed to be first to the bottom of the drowned world, may your eight sails and fifty cannon silently follow up the river.
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