Stand over the abyss, look out, enter:
good practice for later.
Watching tired faces tilt this way and that,
emergencies are announced.
They are not happening to us.
If nothing else,
light deserves an ode.
A crunching break of sun
catches you off guard in quick ride over the viaduct
just before Broadview: the bridge, the river below,
the ravines, pause the flatness:
a slice in the darkness.
The subway is a boat in dark water
tunnelling through the humming black.
Close your eyes.
Ease into the wave.
At this age, the electric lull
is the closest you’ll get to being cradled.
JANE IORDAKIEVA lives and writes in Toronto. Her poetry has appeared in Room Magazine, Dalhousie Review, Hart House Review and other publications.
