A woodpecker teases the bare tree outside
my door, & I estimate the dead obsessively.
At times I gloat over my urgently fostered
sorrows, & often I cannot move for shame
at being alive & well, for cold fear
of everything that’s still unredeemed.
As the neighbours assume bonfires, old tunes,
blue caps & Black Label, as flames & their shadows
mottle cottonwoods, the hound’s slick fur, I am
assured by a night that sweeps itself into corners,
underbed, & since I have been awake
forever, these evenings are as numinous
as the dusty room in which I jot down resolutions:
learn more about woodpeckers; never take more
than four Ambiens at once. Still I
don’t & I do, count my dead obsessively.
About the Writer
Dominique Bechard was born in Northern Ontario. Her work is published in The Puritan, Arc, Acta Victoriana, and The Hart House Review, among others. She has a BA from the University of Toronto, and an MFA from New York University. She currently lives in Montreal.