Creative Writing News

Ursa Minor: Poetry inspired by real Northern news

“Four vials of fentanyl stolen from Kugluktuk health centre.” CBC. Sept 16, 2016.

Ghosts In These Rooms

there are ghosts in these rooms

she says, leaning

back in time to set herself a new

 

hour to lose that time to, eyes

half closed as she communes

with something someone far away, watches

 

white birds take dark turns against the red

wash out of inner lids, the quiet

machines machining mechanized nightmares but the rough

 

and ready rumble of the world keeps

the joy out, so she seeks

the stillness seeping from the slowly

 

dissolving jewel, the peace

which could only come from sleeping

sublime in the awakened morning, knowing you might

 

die you desire

a sweeter sort of death, the nothing of

nothing matters now, now

 

the paramedics come like princes, place pink

naloxone kisses on blue lips, doctors

doctoring their own prescriptions prescribe

 

temporary reliefs against human misery, standing off

to the side a grey dog remarks, he who makes a beast of himself

takes away the pain of being

 

a man, the dog

is chained to a tree, the tree

has died, the police

 

lift her limp wrist, searching

for a freshly-bruised place to fix

the handcuffs now, none of this

 

is ready for recording, returning

from darkest, sweetest Nirvana she lays

on her side on the brightest, coldest

 

longest long night, watches

the Whitehorse Hotel sign burn

out another light, cries

 

why is this happening to me? a question which

once freed turns into a swarm

of buzzing bees, dissolves

 

in the acid warmth of police reports, public

service announcements, the general

malaise of people speaking fearfully of

 

other people, this house, that street, some

slinking shape without a face come creeping

out of some fresh-hot chemical junkie junk methadone dream


Photo credit: Northern Pix (CC)

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