Tracks

I didn't mean to drag you down, it’s just that I show love by suffering at people. That’s how I express myself. I learned to find a freedom in it, through it, and I wasn’t so much trying to pull you down as pull you with me. Where to, I don’t know; I think the point was not knowing.

Do you remember that time we followed the old railroad tracks in winter to that abandoned sugar-shack sat still since about 1955, frozen in time, unchanged even though so many springs passed since and the sap flowed fresh and rich and golden each time? Who decided to stop harvesting it? Who just gave up one day and said fuck it? Decided to stay home? They didn’t come back to collect anything off the walls. They just left it all as it was.

Only a few vagrants had enjoyed it since, as evinced by some half-crushed Pepsi cans and other modern rubbish. And us, we enjoyed it, before the barking of large dogs sounded in the distance, but definitely getting closer. I imagined them, hulking and black against the snow, barreling down upon us as we spent those last surreal days together in late February.

And then, you boarded the plane for China. Where else could you go?

Published!

My author bio and my article on writing effective poetry are now published (under my birth name)! Come take a look!

http://www.thenewsinbooks.com/interview-with-author-jen-field/

Poem -- "Ottawa"

The best time
To capture Ottawa
Is when the wee hours
Caress its pale gray stone
During early October
In between the wild contrast
Of its seasons

That's when
The gilt-burnished leaves
And brilliant lights so clean
Snap fast
Across the dark dish
Of its lull

So rural
So oddly rural
Its nights rustle
Like a country lane
Full of slapping leaves,
Smattering sounds,
Clapping against tires
Whistling in the damp hiss
Of space

And even Vanier
Makes me breathless
With the way light pools
In the junk space
Between its houses