i. Carolyn
I find the key under the pot you bought in Crete,
that cracked the day of Erica's wedding
A calico cat lies on top of bleached postcards,
yellowed newsprint, curled coupons,
drafts of poems abandoned when you became happy.
Dust has settled on the books you loved
but hadn't read in twenty years.
In the closet I run fingers over cotton tops,
same style in different colours, your posh dress,
the leather jacket you had forever,
trying to absorb something of you
through the stale tobacco.
From the window beneath the eaves
where the wasps nested that last summer,
the one that doesn't close, I can see the walnut tree
and the lawn chair, rusty now, where you'd sit and watch
dragonflies, electric blue, hover above the pond.
And the rock garden Robbie made for you,
hauling stones from somewhere along the Similkameen.
At the party, it wasn't a wake,
the marquee on the lawn echoed with your laughter,
throaty from the cigarettes that killed you off.
We said farewell on a sailboat on Okanagan Lake
and drank champagne as the wind took your ashes.
ii.
The day her divorce came through Erica
got a tattoo behind her ear. Along for the ride,
I came out with a dragonfly, electric blue.
In Salty's beside the lake, we sit outside
despite the Autumn chill. A sulky waitress
turns on the propane heater.
The last plane to Vancouver flies low across the water,
we watch the sun go down over Naramata,
drink Caesars and order up garlic prawns.
I read her my poem about Carolyn.
Ripples appear on the smooth black surface of the lake.
Ogopogo we say together. But there is no monster.
As we get the check she asks
Do you think Mom knows I'm OK?
and turns her back to the wind
to light a cigarette.
iii.
I drive past naked vineyards,
fading signs offering tours and tastings,
up to the house on Three Mile Road.
The shutters are down,
the key gone from under the pot;
Erica's in Mexico - maybe she'll stay -
we've said our goodbyes.
I sit in the lawn chair. Breathe in the air.
Someone's burning cedar.
Carolyn's leather jacket keeps out the cold.
Across the lake 4WDs head for the mountains,
they'll be back next summer, hauling outboards
and jet-skis that churn up the lake.
Today it is mine - deep, dark, obsidian-skinned.
Calls my name from beyond the silence.
I should get back in the car, drive to Kelowna,
catch the plane to London.
Quail scatter as I run towards the shore.
© Jan Petersen 2006
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