Ashland - Softcover

Gil Adamson is a poet and the author of "Help Me, Jacques Cousteau"; "Mulder, It's Me: The Gillian Anderson Files"; "The Outlander"; and "Primitive." She lives in Toronto, Ontario.

The train was unable to stop until after the man named Verken was struck. Humming on its track of snow stars, it burst open the unhappy man, scraped up a new nightfall for us all.

Mrs. Dumont has slashed herself across her withered thigh. Two young people recently married are now indifferent to one another. The oldest trees on our main street are dying, all five together. Half the mines are closing due to extreme cold. The men cry over their starved

children, bludgeon their wives out of sheer pity, bury them in barrels and pillow cases.

No man or woman is so dear that Ashland will suffer for long or that the townspeople will be convinced to think as one. Vigil as you like, old age takes care of itself. Violence does the rest.

On Easter of last year, Mr. Verken’s mother died, followed by his

entire herd of cattle and a wife. He is survived by no one.

Brother and Me

It’s a mad day to run away from home, brother. Trees fall drunk in the orchard, heads swarming with bees. Finally, the river has slapped the fields away, so no harvest, no singing, the roads all gobbled up.

Down in the city, women shoot darts, fed up with their lives, or so we’re told. They drown men in the river, sleep in movie theatres, sing the same song over and over until someone gets murderous.

Today wind rushes the empty house, licks the dinner bell inside and out. We settle down to wait.

Our lives are not what we expected.

We eat little crisp buns under the awning and peep out at the sun, the big white fury booming around in heaven.

Burning Field

We’re waiting, eating bread and beer by the gate while, inside, he tears at her clothes, demands reckless things.

All day ash floats in the air, coming from the brushfire.

He’s broken down the barn door, waved the horse out into the burning field. He’s cut his arm open, shouting, “Look at it!” and we shuffle away, leave them to their drifting ship, pass a dry bit of meat from hand to hand.

Soon, he has exhausted himself, fallen asleep, and she comes out.

Her hands search our bodies, shaking with urgency. She moans, and

we hold ourselves still, hold our breath, look away.