Leaving America


Midway through my final winter

a neighbour’s house burned to the ground.

The mother on the top floor threw her baby 

to men who weren’t quick on their feet.

The hydrants were frozen, you see,

each one wearing a cute little snow-cap.

I had three seasons left: spring

for resurrected leaves at the window,

summer to skinny dip at that nude beach

on the Westfield River, 

the one near George Shulz’s old house

where the rocks hurt our feet, 

autumn to stitch a quilt 

to carry the weight of American evenings 

or get a tattoo on my thigh saying

Turn the lights out before you leave.

Needless to say, I didn’t. 

Come November I left as I came, 

snaggle-toothed and skating to broke.

Before the last flight out I bought a lottery ticket 

but couldn’t remember my own lucky numbers.

In the oldest countries, in the countries

of the old, they still make babies.

Pigtails fly above spinning wheels

and mothers grow dull in a park, 

pushing a swing into noon. 

A half-night away a stone slab 

shadows a mound of earth, 

dates close as sisters 

etched above and below.

Summer pilgrims pause to work out 

the chronology of loss, take cemetery

snapshots. Like this one: a woman 

sitting still in a car, hands on the wheel,

pale face turned towards fire.

Elizabeth Loudon