Is there a fire burning somewhere near?
The smell of Halloween floats on the air,
Not heavy-hanging wood-fire smoke, but bright
And fast like sparklers fizzing gunpowder:
A crackling blaze that bristles on the wind.
The waft of tea lights flickering against
The charred black ceiling of their pumpkin heads
Is dark and full as earth’s entombing kiss.
The moon alight with jack-o-lantern glow,
The stars stark white just like a host of ghosts
Where clear sky holds the gentle tang of rot,
The fallen apple’s ferment, cider sour,
Sharp spice of leaves that tumble all around,
and must of fresh-turned dirt and sweet wet grass.
The name of all these memories escapes
My heart, to hover just before my eyes
A cloud dissolving as it joins the sky
And all those burning, dying, aching smells,
A gasp of soul that leaps to join the march
Of footfalls that we cannot hear and names
Forgotten to the depths of time. Will night
Forever feel this way on Halloween?
The prick of fear and hitch of breath,
To know one foot in winter and in death,
But cling to energy’s ascending buzz
That raises all the hairs on craning necks.
We cast a look behind us, as compelled,
By feeling something must be there and yet
Are only met with whispers of a smell
of fire burning somewhere near, and else,
Unnameable and hidden in plain sight.
From depths of earth up to the firmament,
The tingle of familiar, unseen,
This jolt of sensory, pursuing me,
As if October’s dying breath possessed
Me, fast decaying, yet, commanding me to live.
Month: October 2020
Memories of Summer Morning
Someone is awake in the second floor apartment. Blue light glows softly from the window—the blinds drawn—and on the TV, a man’s voice drones an incoherent hum of speech. My feet tap the sidewalk like an interruption.
It is an illusion to think I am the only one yawning at the neon-lit street. If anything, I am intruding upon the hour of bus drivers and gas station attendants. Maybe the people in these cars will be dropped off at the departure gate with heavy bags and a tight hug from a good friend. Maybe they’re rushing to the hospital, awakened out of peaceful routine by an urgent reminder of overlooked mortality. Maybe this driver, alone in their car, is just now beginning a journey that will change their life.
It’s the hour of the Eglinton West construction worker and the 24 hour café waitress. I can see it now: her clean shirt and tired eyes. The functional cut of their grey-speckled garb. She casts them a practiced smile, her only table of customers. Perhaps one of them prefers tea to coffee. His calloused fingers dunk the tag on its fragile string with surprising gentleness. When they stack their dishes, the silverware clatters melodiously above the tinny cafe radio.
Maybe the man with his medical mask and his work bag, passing me, no eye contact, making his way south, savours the chill of the pre-dawn summer morning just as I do. He rolls up his shirt sleeves and feels the caress of air slide goosebumps along his arm.
Too soon the smoggy heat will smother the streets more thoroughly than traffic. And that one bright star, winking above the wisps of purple cloud like a friend with a secret to tell, will be lost in the blaze of dawn.
Mackenzie Lee 