Entrails
I want to share a poem with you, the opening poem of my little book, but sharing a poem here, for the first time, feels vulnerable.
It’s easy to share the poem as part of the book. There, it’s protected between the smudged grey covers, in the company of all the other poems. Part of the story. Safe.
Here, in this space, it is alone, uncovered, exposed. Or maybe it’s me who is exposed.
“Entrails” is one of the first poems I wrote. Not just one of the first for the book, but one of the first of my adult life. I sat at the typewriter to record a memory for a friend, and this is how it emerged.
There is a lot I want to tell you about.
Instead, here is the poem.
Entrails
You didn’t ask me about it
you weren’t like the others
who asked
aggressive
bloodthirsty
cameras rolling
extracting
trauma
for the consumption of the viewing public
you didn’t ask me
about the ash filling the courtyard
the black smudged sky falling heavily into the windows
the man rushing breathlessly through the doorway
“That fire’s really close you gotta go”
you didn’t ask me
you don’t know about
you didn’t
see
a tired neighbour peering down the street
looking for the fire
while the hillside behind him
burned
a small child
tripping over summer sandals
pulled by her mother’s hand
faster than the wind
faster than the fire
you don’t know
that insidious silver shimmer
the sidewalk empty
windows dark
(maybe everyone else is gone)
(maybe they’re still home
shut in
oblivious
as the town burns around them)
You didn’t ask
Practicing, sharing.
To honour the existence of this poem before and separate from Burning Sage, then, let me share an early draft: the scan of an unnamed poem, typed and retyped for each minor edit, paper slightly curled and rolled from its time in the typewriter on the living room floor.
Uncovered, alone, and safe.
“Entrails” excerpted from my book
Burning Sage: Poems from the Lytton fire
by Meghan Fandrich
Publisher: Caitlin Press
Cover design: Benjamin Salesse
Paperback, 88 pages
