Never panic. Post 9/11 angst and guilt here in the *safe* zone.
PADDLING
Clouds of tulle, hushed cavern
suite, desiccated starfish, muted
conch, hurricane lamp decor. Five hundred
thread count sheets lulled her,
triple-moisture night serum, pilewort slathered.
Twitchy sleep, the lie of white lace.
Central nervous system, slipper socks seek the floor,
grope for codeine, find scars, blue bruises,
source blacked out. Yesterday’s kayaking lesson?
Low PH, high FSH. Every bleary morning
tea, tottering on the balcony, a smidgen
of remaining suppleness to torment. How tempting
to toss off throbbing veins, lost arches,
dead cells. Still, she is grateful to see
arbutus, ivy-swathed cedar above bifocal lines.
Hypothalamus the true culprit
according to renowned naturopath, Dr. Snyder.
She ingests capsules devoutly; black cohosh,
red clover, wild yam, calcium-magnesium, ginkgo
biloba. How could she have forgotten? No one is spared.
Tide in, swim dock, cabin cruiser with purple blinds
swaying with speedboat wash. Colossal crabs
culled. Sun teases prone bathers. No suit
flattering enough. A long heron lights upon the pier,
dandy in his powder blue tux. Her depths are pure,
free of lines, cracks. Small consolation
she thinks, peering through water marbled
with contrails of oar weed. It’s early, before the heat
irons out shimmering. Soon everything will be flat,
as if scorched by a linen setting. Below, tidal currents
rip up a roiling stew. Wily seals, giant octopi,
cockles, wolf eels, gill sharks. Just try going out there
in that. He does, husband the quintessential man’s man,
paddling to Skookumchuck. Dead reckoning
includes smoke breaks at Piper, Sockeye Points.
He gains good speed heading up the fjord past mule
deer, bobbing skiffs of fishermen, probably out for Coho
this time of year, and a yacht,
yellow goat of a dog on deck. Good time indeed,
stopping off to hoist pints at Millie’s marina pub.
A Harley blowtorches Highway 101 as she ups
the telly’s volume. Chunks of red double-decker.
White gauze masks a woman’s scorched face.
Edgeware Road Station. ATTACKS ON LONDON.
Trains. Buses. Sightings. Suspicious packages
mushroom. Three detectives unload five shots
into a chubby Brazilian electrician wearing the wrong coat
at the wrong time. Terrified tube drivers. It will be difficult
to convince her grandson the bogeyman is not real,
to explain that unlike Americans, we British suffered no loss
of innocence. She understands why the boy is a homebody,
why he didn’t ask many questions that day, focused
on Thomas the Tank, ignored cascading twin towers.
Husband rushes back to Porpoise Bay, his freedom for her
security. She is sick of herself. Her shrewdness. She is safe,
leaning over the railing, wondering why she is still
standing and not at King’s Cross as she was a year ago.
He reassures her. You are a useful engine.
Hey, let’s to do it in a canoe he’d joke.
Don’t drag your kayak onto the rocks. Fibreglass hulls.
They track well though. Let’s put in right here. Get in.
One leg at a time. Like pulling on a pair of trousers.
Place like so. Sit on the edge,
weight on the paddle.
You’re not going to break it.
Is that a compliment?
This is how you wield the paddle.
Put it in as if the water’s hard on top.
Float planes
will make waves. Turn in.
Do black bears eat off paper plates
like Yogi and Boo Boo?
Do you have pepper spray?
Am I just hiding out here?
Come on. Pay attention.
Approach barriers with stealth.
Don’t get wrapped.
Peel out of the eddies.
Stay close to the shoreline for now.
Work together. Use our rhythm.
Ooh, that’s a good idea.
If we tip, get out.
Find your partner. First thing.
Don’t swim away. Don’t lose your craft.
Never panic.