Sunday Walk
I stepped out onto the bridge
over Kaszubski Canal and felt the quiet
of a day off
running through the scene
where ships always need cargo
added or taken away.
I don’t hear a man saying
I’ve worked here my whole life,
right here on these docks with this sea.
Last night I was so happy
to see you in my sleep. You weren’t yet dead
but couldn’t talk—that skill forever gone.
It’s difficult
to start a new life. So many
of the old songs still apply—Peace like a River
and Blessed Redeemer. The surface
of the water wasn’t quiet enough
to make my own reflection. All I saw were shadows
darkening the already veiled water.
For that moment, I stopped believing
in bridges, that anyone should be held up.
Cook au Gratin
Then all the fanciful high school girls
grew into more controlled versions
of their mothers. Young men losing
their hair were desperate for a few more acts until
their fathers appeared before them
from the bathroom mirror.
They were all simply turning into themselves
as if skewered on a rotisserie
manned by a man in a “World’s Best Cook”
apron. This is your heavenly father. See
how his arm never tires. See how his grimace,
in a certain light, can be mistaken for a smile.
Russell Evatt’s work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Caesura, Cimarron Review, Poems & Plays, and Whiskey Island. His chapbook We are Clay (2012) won Epiphany Edition’s first annual chapbook prize. His website is russellevatt.com.
Steel Toe Review 