to the end of a dream
you must decide when and
and story begin.
remain necessary. understand
from you we expect
Don’t mistake me for deliverance.
I have conjured no rainbows in my lifetime
I have not gathered elephants two by two
nor crows, lions, dogs nor bears.
I have forgotten how to count
have erased multiplication and purification
from memory. In my salt-soaked brain, I hold
only one. I.
On my raft – tall cedars joined with hair rope –
I I I do nothing but float. Bob for fish bellies, banana clumps,
a stray leg once in a while. Horrid, hideous – yes.
I I I’ve grown exhausted with myself,
with floods and the thousand shades
composing each hour of each endless day.
Everything comes to nothing
in the end.
I did try, at first.
Bread for the girls who ventured into the streets.
A dollar here, a dollar there to get a pregnant woman out
when there was still an out to get to.
But I am not a brave man.
God does not speak to me.
In every man’s life there comes a time
to pull the blinds,
lock the door.
That first spring, no ominous sign.
Crows squawked, continued
to eye the world. They carried their days
like cherry twigs. Rain washed the
blossoms along the gutters and all the earth moved
within softened veins, spilling into,
flushing out, salmon steering towards the sea.
My daughter, though, was born finless.
Eddies caught her – one by one caught all the stillborn daughters,
pinned them under water and rock:
we could not save them. Then the sun flared.
We gnawed our own skin, cut our leaking breasts.
We raged at doctors, who could not
Leave the cuttings on the counter,
the dish rag in the sink.
Go out from the city to a rain-dry plain.
do not matter now.
Think about consequence.
Barren the Fury
by Brenda Leifso
$20.00, paperback, 96 pp.
Pedlar Press, May 2015