throwback

i

It’s hard finding a route to walk your dog—at least, I find it that way. But I (or we) finally set on a park hugging the dirty Assiniboine, even though I feel self-conscious in my Caucasian Canadian ways and have to suppress an urge to wipe my dog’s feet before I let him into my apartment. We stare out at the brown water and I grimace at its disgusting beauty. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I feel inspired: the ugliness inspires me. (Inspires me to do what, I don’t know.) A poem forms in my head as we walk back home under the Donald Street Bridge, but the words fall out of my ears as the wind howls through them and it starts to rain. My fingers itch to pick up a pen at home but the words elude me—any words, even the ugly ones. I sleep instead as my dog licks my toes.

ii

the fishermen bring their rods
and radios down to its shores and
hope to catch some luck. they listen hushed
to CJOB and blush and curse whenever
they hear the Bombers mentioned. when they are left
alone, they talk to the ducks and throw them
pieces of crusted bread. they carve their catches
into the stump they sit on, so they know
for next time. at the end of the day, the river
washes away any evidence that they were there,
watching and waiting for something—anything
—to happen. they feel proud when the Free Press reads:
“Red River spits up aluminum chair: local fisherman takes it home.”