Cape Breton Island

I'm taking a 20th/21st century Canadian lit class this term with one of my favourite profs--this is the third time I'll have taken one of her classes. The reason I love her lectures is that they kick your ass ...hard. She's so smart -- which I know seems ridiculous to say, she's a prof, she has a PhD and all that -- but she's really smart. We've been discussing postmodern Canadian writing, and the quest of some Canadian poets to write "authentically" Canadian in spite of a permeating and prevalent American culture. And the reason this course is difficult is because, really, what does a Canadian writer write like? When you're on the inside it's hard to look outwards and answer that decisively.

I haven't been to Cape Breton Island yet, but I hear it's beautiful.


Cape Breton Island

You grab the neck of his faded t-shirt
and pull him in real close
to put your fist through
his face
feel cartilage shatter beneath your knuckles
now slippery with his hot blood that
streams from his destroyed nose
drops of blood that fall like
big flat shiny stones
as if Cape Breton Island was tipped
horizontal
a shower of rocks thundering down
from shattered skin and bone
pouring down his faded t-shirt
a blossoming red stain, it marks him, like a flag
you’re victorious, anonymous, wearing a clean t-shirt
with nothing but grubby knuckles
and the knowledge that you’ve the power to
flip Cape Breton Island