Awaiting The Bumpy Ice Road
Snow forts built of packed wet flour
in a big orange plastic bowl,
S q i u s h
and unfold like an origami fortune
of milky dough and chocolate chips.
My damp fingers leave fingerprints,
as though I walked through the sand,
barefoot through the Kitsilano beach.
Each chocolate chip stumbles in thick
play-doh and an alabaster halo pond.
I think about him and his rustic voice,
the way Inglewood is so steadfast,
the streets are filled with art galleries,
paintings of messy rooms and lovers,
and vegan cafes we used to go to.
Fairy lights hung from the ceiling,
draped on the walls and curtains,
fireflies in the nook of our kitchen,
between walls of coniferous and
evergreen, in between him and me.
My chocolate eyes sharpen at the dough,
a beige beanie bag of seeds of chocolate,
ready for a chill, the winter inside the home,
the box of ice and packaged goods for
months down the bumpy icy road.
