Poetry Pause is the League of Canadian Poets’ daily poetry dispatch. Read “Cradlepin” by Kyle McKillop.

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Cradlepin

By Kyle McKillop

A bus company around here shares a name

with the act of white violence that strung

my wife’s ancestors from ancient trees.

Sixty tourists roll by while she reflects

in its mirrored windows. Once she asked me

if my ancestors could have owned hers,

and it’s unlikely but you feel the weight, right?

That same tension builds between me and you

if I use an old pronoun or say your name

too whitely. Trust is earned, trust is burned.

Static charges in my socks, in the dog’s

fluffy scuffle. My mom remembers me

as the guy who calls to share her schedule.

She answers I love you with Goodbye.

There is a picture of me on her wall, labelled.

When we visit, she grabs her coat in hopes

of movement, the productive person’s escape.

I insist that the only way forward is forward.

I don’t even know you, but I am fond of you

for your good works and your quirks,

your willingness to listen, your stubborn

insistence on love. You are fond of me

for naming this city a cradle. It rocks us

to sleep. The hand on its wooden frame

is our own. I sleep because you can sleep too.

I eat because you can eat too. Surthrival.

Our voices wind together with the birds’,

the wind’s, the river’s, all welcome. Where

you are from, who you are from, you are home

now, safe, loved, because you are with me.

You and I know this is possible. We will

spend our whole lives escaping to it. Say it

with me: this is the way. This is the way.

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Copyright © Kyle McKillop

Kyle McKillop (he/him) is a teacher and PhD student of English, Irish, and Scottish descent living on the traditional unceded territory of the Katzie, Kwantlen, and other First Nations. His poems have been published in CV2 and Dusie tuesday poem, among others, and were shortlisted for the Far Horizons and Vera Manuel awards.

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