Driftwood

I heard you were from B.C.

I heard how they fought for you

in the back of the armoured carrier,

telling you to breathe.

The driver’s intercom was on.

The medics that brought you in bit back tears

at the sound of your guys counting along

with compressions that just wouldn’t work.

In the hospital hall they swept you past me.

You were shirtless, your head wrapped

as though protected from sound, but I’m sure there was some

still eddying boom inside the aftermath that was you.

Later we remarked how that whole scene

had smelled like a barn, and how a photographer

had stuck his arm through the door to take pictures.

We all hated that.

Then someone said Come on.

We got more wounded.

And we did, we had four –

but the worst part was overlooking

the small details of your death, your body

heavy as an ocean, your feet

rolling

back and forth on that stretcher

like logs on a west coast beach.