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ONE DUCK in the glass blue pond one duck stirs through marsh cracking the clear image of mountain breaking silence with an echoing Quack! as if to remind us of the world’s fragility and the unquestionable authority of one duck. TO BE YOUNG for Ken Lund We drove the dirt road out from the Pow Wow grounds toward Walker Bay. Once deep in the forest, we stopped the car, turned off the headlights, and got out and just stood there pebbles biting our bare feet. In that perfect darkness the moon and stars eclipsed by the warnings of ancient trees we did what we came to do: filling our mouths with lighter fluid, each of us lit a match and blew out a burst of flame that burned a hole in the umbra which in a moment swallowed up the light and left us in a darkness somehow deeper than before. Even when you read out loud the warning on the label, we went out the next night and the one after that to deny the darkness to spit our fire to grin like fools and to be young while there was still time. SHE ASKS HIM WHAT HE WANTS She asks him what he wants. He lights a cigarette. She watches his finger trace along the health warning. She pulls away as he exhales into the still, hot air. Beads of sweat dapple his forehead. She likes how the sun lights each droplet and how shadows deepen the thin lines of his still-young skin. A shiver overwhelms her for a moment. She closes her eyes and asks herself, why? Why is she so afraid of what he might say, or leave to silence? Across the court, their neighbour is drinking scotch and listening to the BBC through the static of a cheap radio. Everyone calls him "Cookie" though no one knows why. She feels her husband's eyes, hears that change of breath. Her anger rises. He is always asking her questions, especially when there is something she wants to know. But when he opens his mouth, his words form no inquiry. They are slow and seem to stagger from his dry lips, as if old or drunk or infected by a virus. He lights another cigarette. She watches the flame rise from the flint and then curl as he draws it to the tobacco. When she inhales, she can smell his body, the mixture of sweat and dirt and smoke. Her hands unfold and she rests one on his knee. She can hear Cookie laughing at something and for an instant she wants to laugh, too. She wants to bellow laughter so that it echoes, so that it rises above the rooftops and is carried by the breeze to the next street, the next town, the next universe. The sun slips behind a blue spruce, shifting the light, spawning new shadows. He straightens and turns to her. She squeezes his knee. He begins to answer her question. His voice is strong and clear, somehow new and commanding. She tilts her head as if doing so will enhance reception, her resolve strengthened by a tear splashing against her white knuckle. HE WANTS TO GO BACK TO CHICAGO He wants to go back to Chicago and walk past a crowd of young Puerto Ricans in River Park on a dark night. He wants to feel the humidity as elm shadows creep across the pavement and the moon slips light through heavy branches. He wants to feel the young men brush against him, taunt him in a language he cannot understand. He wants them to hope he'll make the wrong move. He wants to put a hand in his pocket and have them wonder if he has a gun or is just bluffing. He wants to catch the leader's eye and swallow it whole. He wants to feel what it's like to walk away without looking back and hear their voices fade away as he cuts across the lawn toward neon lights. He wants to stop beneath the giant willow and hold on to its gnarled bark while he vomits on his shoes. These are the things he told his wife one sunny afternoon as they sat on their front stoop at the end of a court in a Canadian suburb. These are the things he told his wife after she asked what he wanted to do but failed to add, "this afternoon." LESSON Yesterday when I tickled you, I know how surprised we were. My first thought had been to teach you a lesson about the consequences of not putting things away. Somehow, though, it came to me that some lessons aren't worth teaching, especially when laughter and joy are sitting in the back row their small hands raised high with so many answers that even a teacher like me cannot ignore them forever. AFTERMATH Storm waters have flooded the pasture. Fish swim at the feet of cattle. A farmer rows slowly by mooing softly. LAST REQUEST Don't press my heart between two Bantam pages Keep me in your bottom drawer buried in underwear. *** markholmgren@shaw.ca