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THEM
St. John's, Newfoundland

Elisavietta Ritchie


The leathered man hauling his mule,
the immigrant woman throwing slops at dogs,
the kid at billiards, his hands smelling
of fish or the scent of a girl...

This brutal blessed gap, as between two
arms of the harbor when even at low tide
ice like dumped paving blocks,
it's dangerous to cross.

Yet some nights
after too much sweet wine or poppyseed cake,
we dream their dreams. We do not mean to,
we cannot wake in time to shut them out.

With the long reach of dead lovers, they
grasp our sleeves, scratch our skin,
snatch our pillows, leave us naked
on mattresses stuffed with corn husks.

The funnel blast that calls them back
to dory, barge or ship, we hear
miles from any port.
And their blood

matches our own, the murk
of their minds and lives seeps
into ours, as we try to ford
the straits, cross the ice in time.



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