Christina Young


He just dropped me home
after following the detour,
getting sidetracked, skidding
on Thorold's back roads,
he brought me back the long
way. Instead of running his

hand down my thigh, he
ran down the length of
the country side, sighing
at intervals of corn fields,
sloped roads escalate, then
remarking at the sight of
two field rabbits in that

eastern Ontario way. I
used my cat voice when I
saw those two, and he
objected, slightly annoyed
by the long detour, by the
ride home, cohering to a bout
of deep barrenness like

the belly of a winter'd lake
open to thaw and cold
winds; yawn. His mouth,
a black rainy hole, opened
only to emit breath onto
the solitary landscape which

blurred by past on the drive --
no opening for tongue, to
release, to touch another in
the blank desert night. He only
said, "Sleep well. Go to school
tomorrow" as if not observing

the evening as a passionate,
lazing, ardent prospect, exiling
the irretrievable off to dream
in separate beds.

Location: Niagara Falls, Ontario

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