Prairie Fire - - RENÉE M. SGROI -

in mem­ory of Todd Bruce, from Win­nipeg

I’ve still no clue

what a jig­ger is

or why a red fox stared

while you checked locks,

in wooded Whiteshell

trees yel­low browns

and left or right

of the Provencher bridge,

I never knew

which way the rivers ran

all sinewed silent

to the Forks;

where a mu­seum sits

geno­cides rec­on­ciled

as if the dead

find dig­nity, a cause

and now you too—

a poet passes through our lives

nar­ra­tive, born in epis­to­lary time

let­ters etched, in palimpsest

we never wrote.

I hear you laugh­ing

at my ret­i­cence

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