Bushed, Also
after Barry McKinnon
by Cam McAlpine
So we have come late to this place where the switchblade wind blows,
swirls around broken stems of wheat, and snowdrifts form themselves
in stationary waves. The valley slides off to the left, and I descend.
I’m moving east, I think I must be moving east, because I’m running
from the barren truth of what you told me many times,
rigorous as fire unravelling a network of veins across the limbs of a tree.
Your hair a skein of grey now and you sit behind me still,
as I spool the tendril laid by your father on his journey west.
If you tunneled through snow, gathered it around you like a coat,
would the wind still blow, directionless? Would a match light
these tender stamens, ripped and piled like twigs? A house,
built out of a tree, a single tree on the prairie is burning,
turning flames into atmosphere, casting out a crowd of shadows
to guide the way, this narrow strip of road, a hump of white
on which my wheels barely focus, while under the dashboard lights
snow turns porous on my boots, a shroud of white dust
(prairie road, Red River Basin, MB)
Cam McAlpine is a writer and editor
living in Prince George, BC. Previous publications include Canadian
Literature, West Coast Line, The Capilano Review, and It’s
Still Winter.
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