Po­ten­tial Stops on Our Mar­itime Book Tour

Prairie Fire - - TABLE OF CONTENTS - LU­CAS CRAW­FORD

84

Let us pack our match­ing bag­gage–

In Sackville, WWII ra­dio tow­ers trans­mit­ted fre­quen­cies well into our mil­len­nium. Res­i­dents heard voices haunt­ing their Sun­day night sinks un­til the tow­ers tum­bled.

Don’t bother wring­ing your dish­pan hands. Whet axes and dry herbs for the ar­ti­san em­pire.

Preg­nancy tests car­pet the Dieppe mall bath­room. To ex­pulse or not to ex­pulse. Evan­ge­line, did you go to the ap­point­ment alone?

In Antigonish, bish­ops move obliquely. Check blind spots for crooked spooks, for shadow popes on ropes, for a pilgrim girl [sic] who doesn’t know she’s a Jew.

Ev­ery­where, you and I skip Mass to try weight­less­ness.

In Syd­ney, I miss my fel­low phantom fag­gots who would cruise “the fruit loop” for ass. In Syd­ney, echo; re­cur­rence. Bis­cuits with jam, clot­ted dreams and mo­lasses.

We gab. But there’s a son­net corona in your whim­per. We are old oaks in thun­der. We are trust falls tim­bered,

sweet tree, sweet tea.

Hal­i­fax? O Mem­ory.

In our Fred­er­ic­ton down­town, two dump­sters face off. One reads GO FOR IT. The other, SAFETY FIRST.

Look left to right to left. Tie up mixed mes­sages in thin leather laces. Try not to know what to do. Just let me be gor­geous trash, here, and there, and there, with you.

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