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July 28
Four minutes after our blackout,
after the computer screen stops hissing
like a carnivorous insect,
after the lights in our basement
quiver with unearthly wattage
(weird for 60 amp service)—
there’s more than just
absence of power.
Well of stillness.
Ceasefire.
In our house of cards
teetering over the Bloor subway—
crystal wineglasses in the upstairs cabinet
stop pinging.
Familiar rattle
of underground wheels,
at first hesitant, then quickening,
crescendo, sotto voce,
vibrating floors from 6
a.m. to midnight—
lose their repetitive, unbending score.
My ears finely tuned
to Beethoven, street noise,
can openers and Prokofiev,
are glad at first, then betrayed.
Had my husband felt
the same alien jolt
in his eleventh floor office?
Or was it just our house,
air conditioners puffing,
circuit overload, confirmation that yes,
we should have replaced
that ancient fuse panel years ago.
In our east-end neighbourhood
with sloping front porches
and impossible, shared driveways—
one by one, second string players
in an unfinished script,
edge down crooked steps,
point at massive power-lines.
We know and yet we don’t know.
What has corroded—
some neglected power grid,
faith in our city,
belief in the Divine?
What will happen when all the faces
of those trapped in underground tunnels,
charcoaled with panic,
reunite with loved ones?
Imagine lips bending sweet,
outlined by darkness,
miles of corrosion.
Feel the soft crush of bodies
anxious for fresh light,
their power cresting, omniscient.
Excerpt for
the Blackout Journal
by Carla Hartsfield
Carla Hartsfield has had three poetry collections published previously,
two from Vehicule Press, and the most current titled Your Last Day on Earth
appeared from Brick Books in 2003. She is currently working on a fourth manuscript with
the working title of Blackout Journal. During the writing of this book she has
received mid-career writing grants from the Canada Council as well as Toronto Arts Council.
Email: Carla Hartsfield
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