ALL SOULS' DAY
Some moon -- full, and fall.
So close it grazes the houses.
The clocks gone back now -- six
and it's near dark. That moon
bright, though, and this city. Cars,
their lights, wash by on pavement
made for them. This sidewalk,
its dates marked in concrete
(1977, 1992), made for me.
By someone. That someone
a soul now perhasps, body
done, in earth. Winter soon.
This poem is supplementary material for a review of Rhea Tregebov's latest collection, All Souls, soon to appear in The Rover. Here another poem not at all referred to in the review, but that I post simply because I enjoyed it.
Spring in Winnipeg, no small thing.
My parents are cleaning the windows
with vinegar, with newspapers to dry.
They stand on either side of the glass,
each others' reflection, each others'
shadow. My father on a ladder outside,
my mother in. My mother sees my father,
sees her own image faint, my father
sees only her, the window an imperfect
mirror, imperfect transparency.
Their hands move in concert
in circles from corner to centre,
steady, serious. My father
has found a spot for her, she's found
a streak for him. They're
looking after things. Soon
it will rain, soon wind will spread
the prairie dust, months will give up
their lives against the glass, perhaps
a chickadee, perhaps a sparrow. Soon.
But now, the surface is clean.