It's two below zero this morning. A batch of Paul's friends decided to have a polar campout last night, but "my kid is too sick to sleep outside in subzero weather" was the perfect excuse for getting out of it. The poor boy crashed and burned during yesterday's basketball tournament; there was much public sobbing; we had a hard day.

Also there was a great deal of affection. On her own volition someone's grandma ran out to buy him a packet of Tums. His friends hugged him on the gym floor. Girls sat next to him on the bench and tried to make him laugh. These are the advantages of having 10 people in your class, all of whom you've known since babyhood. When you are 14 years old and pushing 6 feet tall, and you are collapsed in your mother's lap crying your eyes out smack in the middle of a busy sporting event, no one is the least bit surprised, although they are all very sad for you.

Home

Dawn Potter

So wild it was when we first settled here.

Spruce roots invaded the cellar like thieves.

Skunks bred on the doorstep, cluster flies jeered.

Ice-melt dripped shingles and screws from the eaves.

We slept by the stove, we ate meals with our hands.

At dusk we heard gunshots, and wind and guitars.

We imagined a house with a faucet that ran

From a well that held water. We canvassed the stars.

If love is an island, what map was our hovel?

Dogs howled on the mainland, our cliff washed away.

We hunted for clues with a broken-backed shovel.

We drank all the wine, night dwindled to grey.

When we left, a flat sunrise was threatening snow,

But the frost heaves were deep. We had to drive slow.

[first published in roger (2010); forthcoming in Same Old Story (CavanKerry Press, 2014)]