from The Dreams Weren’t Real but Were Time All The Same
by James Irwin
On the road from Salmon Arm in a tan pickup truck
she drives in cut-offs and bare feet.
I let my hand swim loose out the window.
Where in hell is anyone at all?
I watch the slow tanning of my skin.
Hills sprawl in and out of lakes.
I see how they have a holy god out here.
Concessions cut the land into equal access to the sky.
You can say something as nonsensical as holy god
out the window into human silence, with no reply.
You can say it and hear no contradiction,
only the rolling, idle, bird-speckled,
echo of the land.
For his MA in English in the Field of Creative Writing, James Irwin is writing a novel titled My Mother is a Fish. He also writes songs, poems and stories, and as a musician in Montreal, he released five albums. He was awarded the Avie Bennett Emerging Writers Scholarship. Photo: Jackie Shapiro