ditch,

the poetry that matters

Trisia Eddy 

Trisia Eddy lives and writes near farms, train-yards, refineries, and the North Saskatchewan River.  Her work has been broadcast on radio, published both in print and online, most recently with Existere; fait accomplit; and cahoots magazine. She is the founding editor/publisher of red nettle press, which released her chapbook, what if there's no weather, in 2007.

 

After

                                                                                               

 

Blistered fingerprints tell all they can:  the story of a girl with golden hair too long for her skinny legs, still those knobby knees, a frill of torn lace tucked in the bottom of her jacket, and a run like the wind.

 

i wuz here, but now i'm gone

 

the breeze says, slow down, but she won't listen.  she's afraid of what might not catch up to her.

 

Jumps at the sound of the magpie, a brisk harsh bray in the twilight air.  sees the chalk marks on the pavement which spell out messages, dire warnings to loved ones:

 

don't step on a cra-aack you'll break your mother's ba-aack

 

Hears the call of others jumping the rest of the day away, the soft thrum, thrum of the green electrical box beside the neighbor's hedge:

 

m - i - s - s  - i - s - s - i....

 

can't tell the secret when she comes in.  the aroma enveloping her, summer fresh hair, chafed thighs.

 

shhhh

 

 

 

 

 

Daddy didn't want me

 

 

lipid

          dissolved

steak fires burning

 

no daily lean

weight machine

 

paid weekly for upgrades

spent hard cash on cable

 

never really

left, just closed the door

pretended

all along

right there

beside

seeing everything

hearing it all

 

burning:

 

pyre

smoldering

bones

 

 

 

 

8-year old girls mean trouble

 

 

pretend you didn't see us

slipping wild

through french doors

out the bedroom

 

 

 

 

 

Funeral

 

 

when you pull

the face torn

day just seems to repeat itself

over and over

and over

and the way you say

          i didn't know

what i heard was

not the song of finches

or the trilling

of waxwings

in winter

but ashes.

 

 

 

 

 what

what if you miss me
what if we can't find it
what if i wake up
what if the doorbell rings
what if there's no weather
what if we spill
what if someone else finds the key

what's the next letter

 

(note: what is reprinted from the chapbook what if there's no weather (red nettle press, 2007)
Used by permission.

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