Sticks and Stones
by Cam McAlpine
The man in the house on the hill, they say, held secrets, a fascination
with stones and glue, a glass eye that rolled around in his head, a soul, searching.
Paid neighbourhood kids to collect stones from the shore down the hill.
Paid them to save used popsicle sticks: ten cents a dozen. A house,
a children’s playground rhyme—sticks and stones will break my bones but
no words—a mind externalized, sure, but what house isn’t?
Here in this basement the detritus of our life stacks up in corners,
hope and pain and love beneath cobwebs, pictures fading against one wall—yes,
the other end of the country and I am up against my own secrets,
those that I have been running from all my life, elusive,
like the cod at the grocery store in the mall, not as cheap as you might think.
And the laundromat on the hill where we were forced to use the parking brake,
do you remember? A place to get clean, wash blood from hands.
People coming and going—the hope and pain on all these shattered faces,
the ache of life a crease at the corner of an eye—so many people ghosts.
And why don’t we all just crumble under the weight?
A human weakness, to walk upright and cling helplessly to anything.
(Corner Brook, NF)
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.
|
