window pain

They replaced a front window yesterday.
The old one leaked cold in winter
hot in summer.
The glass wore a patina
indelible as cataracts;
paint flecked like dandruff
onto the windowsill.
But the death knell
had been the rasp of my fingers
on the weathered spongy wood.

As they pried and chiseled,
a spring breeze
wafted the perfume of old cedar
through the house
one last time.

The new window will not leak
winter or summer;
The glass is clear is filtered air
no paint flecks anything
no wood will weather.

So heat will stay in its place,
and if I play that trick of the eye
I can see a real window in its place,
one that peals and leaks and grays over
the way the long-ago carpenter
explained to my grandfather:
She’ll be here when we’re long gone.

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86400

[86400 is the name of a film made by a local production company. It was shown to the public on April 29, 30, 2009 in Cinema 1 at Galaxy Cinema in Cornwall, Ontairo. The film was made by the crew of three interviewing 24 Cornwall citizens in a 24 hour period—hence the title, which is the number of seconds in 24 hours.]

Many thousand years ago  deep in a cave
a small group of fur-clad hunters
stood watching the souls of animals and other hunters
brought out of the darkness by flickering torch light
but frozen in the heat of the blood hunt.

They drooled watching the plump animals flee
pondered the handling of a spear, the heft, the flight.
They argued the strategy, wondered how the animal
could exist silent without its strong familiar musk.

They left the cave, relieved, pleased to smell the familiar grasses
to hear the birds overhead, alert to the scent of a young boar
that had passed south three days before, just after the rain.

Two nights ago in raked seats, ranged rows of eyes watched our town
displayed on the familiar blank white wall that usually controls
our imaginations from afar.

But here we were watching ourselves in the magic place:
this time people we really knew were up there larger than life
wondering if they are allowed to move their heads
or smile.

We left the theatre, relieved, pleased to smell the familiar gases
to hear the busy traffic, alert to the scent of fried fast food nearby
startled by the crisp swish of tires, just after the rain.

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tiny wings

Even now her voice sounds far away
even farther than across the country
whispering over phone lines and satellite.

I hold the receiver against my ear
my clutching fingers ache, arthritic
warm plastic crushes my earlobe.

At first the conversation is in the room;
she talks about her kids and her kids’ kids;
she ttalks about her garden, the hard soil.

Then she drifts far away, to the holy land,
the land of truth that brooks no argument:
her voice tiny, sibilant vibrations and space.

I can see the color of her rage, tendrils
of green and sparking blue drift through the room
like cigarette smoke through afternoon sunlight.

I see her dancing among the clouds
her lips snapping like maracas on a Mexican patio
the words beading on a Corona bottle.

Housefly settles on the lip of the bottle
performs the ritual frantic toilette
that fills its caustic life, then lifts and flits away.

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