you haven’t been out. meaning out doing, out being your bluesky
self. not blanket sitting in this see saw chair. there went winter’s dry
skis, leaning like two planks giving up on the job they had in mind.
there went some of yours—kids, wife doing your ice chopping
down the creek. instructions issued from the blue chair. your shirts,
neither bought new nor left billowing but taken in. your timbers
scare-crowing. a pressed and presentable sorrow.
between sleepings you oversee the builders constructing your next
place. you ask if we see the men with tools. your fingers counting
out the nails. when it is suddenly closer to never I ask it. ask if you
know where you’re going. yes, you say in the language of most
certainly. your blue eye seeing it. but they told you, an old man
and a boy, you see them, at the foot of your bed. they told you
not to say. so you do not say what stands between if, and when.
I send a message in moth-hovering code, to remember forever etc.
you can’t hear in this downing light. the long division of it, this shedding
of waters and sediments. thursday you rise up for a last bowl of soup.
the new area is built, they will move you there soon. our cream of potato
time, before. keen sweet leaving. when next you wake you will already be.
well down the snowy path, your tracks obscured.
Lori Cayer’s second volume of poetry, Attenuations of Force, was released by Frontenac House in 2010 as a finalist in the Dektet Series. Her first poetry collection, Stealing Mercury (The Muses’ Company, 2004), won the Eileen McTavish Sykes Award for Best First Book in Manitoba in 2004, and in 2005 Lori won the John Hirsch Award for Most Promising Manitoba Writer. She serves as co-editor of English poetry for CV2 and is co-founder of the Aqua Books Lansdowne Prize for Poetry/Prix Lansdowne de poésie, part of the Manitoba Writing and Publishing Awards.