Our street is an open gash, old plumbing exposed. New city pipes, like
laid out on the curb to be planted. Pipes so wide I could climb into each one
and build me a nest of hollow concrete. In there it would be quiet.
A digger is idle, a mountain of gravel will refill the hole come summer.
For now, a layer of snow interrupts the traffic cones and springtime work,
the shallow pit calling for snow angels, or local wound exploration.
All around are detours and railings, orange signs that warn against bridging
the gulf between this corner and the next. Pedestrians stare down into the
……..drop off, and
picture all the cavities beneath a city, if anything can heal us from collapse.
Finally the hoses are aligned—a tap in front of every house. Our valve is left
and water explodes over fences, spraying slush, threatening to drown the
If April rains enough, melts it all down, I will learn to swim the canyon to
……..cross our street.
For now, I think of the ambulance stuck at the intersection. What is your
Our road cannot be sutured, we are stranded, awaiting technicians.
Esmé Pine is from Montreal. While earning her bachelor’s at Concordia, she served as poetry editor and, later, as editor-in-chief of The Void Magazine. She hopes to return to school this summer; in the meantime, she waits tables and works part-time at a used bookstore.