Waiting Till the Next Breaking Point.

August 01, 2020

The Supermoon was last night 
We stopped to appreciate it for 
A moment, admiring the 
Way it lit up the clouds 

This night is wet and cold 
Missing the Supermoon’s 
Optimism. We set out for a brisk 
Walk, round and round the neighborhood 

Sometimes saying what needs to be 
Said makes things permanently worse. 
Confessing one’s insecurities doesn’t 
Make them go away, but makes the 

Others more aware, setting the stage 
For nasty exploitation. How frightening 
It can be, to still be young but
Getting older, and to see, with a 

Front row seat, that those you 
Held as constants are really 
Very unhappy, and it’s not your 
Fault but in a way it is. The 

Tendons in your ankle snap when 
It’s this cold and you didn’t 
Prepare them for a walk, for 
You weren’t prepared yourself. 

Throwing on the first available 
Pair of unwashed pants. 

Denim doesn’t suit either of you 
The way it used to. Neither do the 
Violent outbursts, Mom calling out to 
Never come back. 

Sitting on the couch in a half-drunk 
Stupor night after night, the 
Itinerary’s only pushed back 
A half-hour to accommodate this 

Stilted walk, once around then 
Once more. The darkest part’s
The home stretch, covered by a 
Dense pack of trees, the only 

Light comes from the approaching 
Truck illuminating our backs, we 
Hear it coming and fall into 
A single-file line, to take 

Up less space, how you always 
Want to take up less space, at 
The breakfast table, in political 
Conversation. He is not the enemy 

But you’d rather stay quiet, just 
As you do now. One foot in front 
Of the other. But your shoes untied 
So you have to stop, he walks ahead 

And your shadows elongate as the 
Headlights draw nearer. I 

Contemplated jumping in front of the 
Moving vehicle, how much easier it’d
Make things for me and father both, 
But the thought scared me too much 

And there was still the issue of 
My shoe. One of the laces is 
Gnawed on from the puppy we
Bought to fix things. There is a 

Little girl back at home who’s 
Very upset. She doesn’t know 
How to process her emotions 
However and sits in the basement 

Covered in an old blanket completely 
Numb as if suddenly struck by 
A paralyzing illness, the kind 
That takes your breath away but 

Ups the production of words floating 
Around in your head. Sleep with 
A pen in one  hand waiting to 
Feel compelled but you’ll never 

Sign-off on anything. What’d 
Be the use? And what’s the 
Use of processing anyway
We wonder to ourselves as 

We try to anticipate the feeling 
We’ve had our entire lives. The 

Result a stopping-starting stream of verbal 
Diarrhea, his words, not mine. 
Mother worries for the wrong 
Reasons. The root of it all is far 

More sinister and inescapable and 
Neither of us seems to be able 
To place a finger on it. Fingers 
Move up and down and both 

Men crave the touch of soft skin,
It’s been far too long, much overdue 
And the formalities would have to be 
Skipped. Not that anything like that 


Would ever actually happen. It feels 
Good to be working again and 
He can say all he wants about wanting 
You to be a good person and nothing more 

But you’ll never convince yourself that’s true. And 
Tonight most definitely won’t be 
The night as you fall into bed with 
Your jacket still on. A measly

Rain begins to fall and he stands in 
The middle of it, wondering if just 
One more can would do the trick. Neither 
Will forget the night’s walk and it’s 

Unsatisfactory conclusion. Both’ll continue to live 
In the discomfort of their own home, and it 
May be years until things begin to change. 

Mother has tears in her eyes. And 
To think her special day was 
Coming soon. Filling the bucket from 
The ghostly stream and dispensing 

The contents over a muffin pan. 
Muffins for breakfast after 
Everyone’s had a night to sleep 
(At least most everyone) may rejuvenate 

The facade enough to keep it 
Going for the summer. At that 
Point, other houses may become
Available, though no one fancies 

Moving out too soon. That’s always 
The worst position to be in. 
But we’re thinking Calgary, 
After we play out our careers. 

Until then, muffins and 
Beer. There’s money to be 
Made, Catholic guilt, and the 
News cycle, all dead ends 

Much like the walk which we 
Avoid, generally. Oh, lost money 
Is the answer. So, aren’t 
You proud, 

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