Driving back down the coast, now. Gunned
for St. Anthony two days ago, chasing
icebergs.
Missed the big one by a week. Sea and sky
seem
to meet, but look closer. Squint, they
never marry
– horizon is engagement made indefinite.
Staring at Labrador’s Southern shore,
we force small talk about weather,
how the car won’t heat up. Kidding
ourselves, we’ll try again next year. I
couldn’t tell up
from down. You’d take to the tent hours
early,
hardly a word between us. I stood on the
beach,
slammed cans of Keith’s. Numb.
The few bergs left in the bay broke up
overnight. Pretending to sleep, we keened
our ears to their calving, Dragunov crack
and slow splash as each new piece
reasserted itself, got used to letting go.
At the Arches we stopped, stretched our
legs.
For a moment we stood together, watched
waves
gnawing rock. Your thick green sweater
broke
my heart as I leaned on the car, watched
you
comb the beach for nothing in particular
