Fifteen unsmudged years, same squad, in the same force,
far from crooked and not
a bit calloused
but those days of searching — raft-poles prodding in gorse,
hedgerows, and woodlots —
we unearthed
Carla last March who used to do me for free
down a junked alley that
stank of creosote,
sulphur, and beef. I’m not one to grieve
(my wife’ll agree, she’s seen
ink-eyed calicoes strung
limp from our willow out front) but Carla — to bear her
in pieces, in a zipped up sack, I
sank down on one
knee, felt my marrow wither to chaff, a terror
seep into my skull as
an image — well-framed
but blurred — developed in there of uncuffed lifers
crossing a train-bridge at night.
I couldn’t focus
on a fucking thing: the boot-fall, the whispers,
the knife-flicking. It was like
the gates had yawned
open at Penetanguishene.