SAM CANNEY

Home

is a dock unmoored
from its own inner harbor;

a seeker with eight ropes 
curling around tiny whirlpools left in wake. 

II

at the fringes of a moment 
there is no grief
only the silence of how it could
have all been different. It could.

count the blades 
of sweetgrass, the 
memories that stand 
between the fatha.

III

in the distance, two lions 
flare their silhouettes;
roars sealed cold in concrete. 

fill the tank or put $9.20 on numba 5?

IV

you can just choose to forget.
A mouth guard could cushion
all that clenching. And then

you’ll have ta take the otha way out:
hug them until you’ve remembered 
every vodka-singed word;

until their heart deflates
& the docta peels away
the dead bolt on the front door.

V

& outside, instead 
of the yellowed yard of childhood,
you find, aside, a brick wall
stuffed with sticky notes
harbouring every choked unraveling. 
Pull the one, the most untouched.
Swallow the spit of a lonely life breaking free. 
Scrape those chain linked letters
till sparks explode this mis-loved throat.
Till tha weeds burst fireworks under ya 
and I emerge – yawning 
from your eyes
bright as molten glass 
dripping from a mirra.