9 3 9
By Sebastian Karall (@sebastian_karall)
Others will walk these paths when you’ve long gone
Others will write these words
The land moves on
— Elizabeth Greene
you are rich like olive oil roasting in winter
over scued stove tops and warped teon pans.
i return home rosy, with an air of the outdoors
on my shoulder, and pull the ice chunks
out of the dog's paws. ick the stereo on,
the tina record skips about just as
these echoes in memory.
i greet your steamy face straining pasta,
your salty, slightly wet lips drip life back
into me like drink to a shriveled sponge.
we settle far into the couch together for dinner,
the outside a shivering streetlight blue
set to sounds of grey slush hucked up by the cars on western road.
valentines: we make the most out of february’s
foibles. walk home together on the path
behind the stadium, discover fresh snails on lamposts
and camouaged squirrels and doe drinking the road
runo from a smelly drainage pipe.
at home i set us up a giant canvass in the living room oor and
we pour out the paint in primary colours — your favourite.
steam rice, soft boil eggs, we are too liberal with soy sauce.
steam rice, soft boil eggs, we are too liberal with soy sauce.
your summer freckles newly minted
from all our unhatched picnics in gibbons.
four windows open, still summer night,
the outside cools as we eat.
quick walks to hiya for some mystery sweets
the change playing tin notes in our pockets.
take the smelly garbage out by the bins,
talk to the homeless man from jamaica
sifting through student trash.
hear his story, forget to write it down.
mostly i long for september,
when the year begins and cardinals
are more than sumac clumps sitting still on sticks.
we are on the lookout groundhogs, apartment dogs,
new neighbours moving in, old ones moving out.
walk to cherryhill. the trees grow yellow
and the wind picks up and garbage splayed out
across student lawns travels from one
end of the street to the other.
we warm each other and your hand gets sweaty
and we get colder in the breeze.
in spring, the oldsters rise again like backyard umbrellas
and funnel in to the food court, where we sit
and chew hickory sticks and dino-sours, looking over them
playing cards over pizza or pastries or pork sandwiches.
i think we dream of them, of ourselves in these spaces,
at this pretend village for retirees, chinese food and jamaican patties.
we buy you dog-print bags at old lady stores, buy groceries,
shop the sales, haggle with the knock-off shoe shop owner
over calico critter slippers that fit your feet poorly and flop around.
go to bed together, i speak the sweetest things to you
when you’re half asleep and you hear half of it.
i watch you beside me each night for four years
i see you get slightly older, it happens to me too.
i could recite every instance permitted to my memory
of our time together in this big grey brick apartment,
but I trust that you know the picture.
Sebastian Karall is an emerging poet and writer from Woodstock, Ontario. He recently graduated from Huron at Western University with a BA in English Literature, where he served as the editor of Huron’s long-standing poetry publication, Grubstreet, for two years. His work has appeared in Iconoclast, Symposium, Synaeresis: Arts + Poetry, Yolk, and previous editions of Grubstreet.
