Younger Shadows
You trace symbols of past wounds,
in dirt tracks at the protest camp,
miners and mavens ran in your
blood, not to get us sitting in
front of dress, answering to change
in screen glow.
You loved the silence after a
window shattered, the second of breath
after rags and tear gas,
the twitch of muscle hen taking
off on broken sneakers down alleyways,
the smile after clouds cleared on
demonstration day.
You told me, “even though this
place is alright for while we’re
young, I’m secretly planning to move
back to Montreal”, eyes echoed
past the bartender’s stubble, the
faux-neon Miller sign.
I wondered what would happen to
spray-paint sculptures, chalk slogans,
restless sparks, cuts locks, thrown-down
chains? You said
we’d see in time, can’t take anything
but memories with us
to the other side.
Of night? Of sleep? How long?
Answers were a white fence,
red brick window in age.
