Zone: le Détroit (by Di Brandt)
Zone: le Détroit (by Di Brandt)
After Stan Douglas
Original Text
Di Brandt, Now You Care (Toronto: Coach House Press, 2003). This
poem is reproduced on the Griffin Prize Web Site (from a volume on the 2004 Canadian Shortlist).
1Breathing yellow air
2here, at the heart of the dream
3of the new world,
4the bones of old horses and dead Indians
5and lush virgin land, dripping with fruit
6and the promise of wheat,
7overlaid with glass and steel
8and the dream of speed:
9all these our bodies
10crushed to appease
11the 400 & 1 gods
12of the Superhighway,
13NAFTA, we worship you,
14hallowed be your name,
15here, where we are scattered
16like dust or rain in ditches,
17the ghosts of passenger pigeons
18clouding the silver towered sky,
19the future clogged in the arteries
20of the potholed city,
21Tecumseh, come back to us
22from your green grave,
23sing us your song of bravery
24on the lit bridge over the black river,
25splayed with grief over the loss
26of its ancient rainbow coloured
27fish swollen joy.
28Who shall be fisher king
29over this poisoned country,
30whose borders have become
31a mockery,
32blowing the world to bits
33with cars and cars and trucks and electricity and cars,
34who will cover our splintered
35bones with earth and blood,
36who will sing us back into--
37See how there’s no one going to Windsor,
38only everyone coming from?
39Maybe they’ve been evacuated,
40maybe there’s nuclear war,
41maybe when we get there we’ll be the only ones.
42See all those trucks coming toward us,
43why else would there be rush hour on the 401
44on a Thursday at nine o’clock in the evening?
45I counted 200 trucks and 300 cars
46and that’s just since London.
47See that strange light in the sky over Detroit,
48see how dark it is over Windsor?
49You know how people keep disappearing,
50you know all those babies born with deformities,
51you know how organ thieves follow tourists
52on the highway and grab them at night
53on the motel turnoffs,
54you know they’re staging those big highway accidents
55to increase the number of organ donors?
56My brother knew one of the guys paid to do it,
57$100,000 for twenty bodies
58but only if the livers are good.
59See that car that’s been following us for the last hour,
60see the pink glow of its headlights in the mirror?
61That’s how you know.
62Maybe we should turn around,
63maybe we should duck so they can’t see us,
64maybe it’s too late,
65maybe we’re already dead,
66maybe the war is over,
67maybe we’re the only ones alive.
68So there I am, sniffing around
69the railroad tracks
70in my usual quest for a bit of wildness,
71weeds, something untinkered with,
72goldenrod, purple aster, burdocks,
73defiant against creosote,
74my prairie blood surging
75in recognition and fellow feeling,
76and O god, missing my dog,
77and hey, what do you know,
78there’s treasure here
79among these forgotten weeds,
80so this is where they hang out,
81all those women’s breasts
82cut off to keep our lawns green
83and dandelion free,
84here they are, dancing
85their breastly ghost dance,
86stirring up a slight wind in fact
87and behaving for all the world
88like dandelions in seed,
89their featherwinged purple nipples
90oozing sticky milk,
91so what am I supposed to do,
92pretend I haven’t seen them
93or like I don’t care
94about all these missing breasts,
95how they just vanish
96from our aching chests
97and no one says a word,
98and we just strap on fake ones
99and the dandelions keep dying,
100and the grass on our lawns
101gets greener and greener
102and greener
103This gold and red autumn heat
104this glorious tree splendour,
105splayed out for sheer pleasure
106over asphalt and concrete,
107ribbons of dark desire
108driving us madly toward death,
109perverse, presiding over
110five o’clock traffic
111like the queens on Church Street
112grand in their carstopping
113high heels and blond wigs
114and blue makeup, darling,
115so nice to see you, and what,
116dear one, exactly was the rush?
117Or oceans, vast beyond ridicule
118or question, and who care if it’s
119much too hot for November,
120isn’t it gorgeous, darling,
121and even here, in this
122most polluted spit of land
123in Canada, with its heart
124attack and cancer rates,
125the trees can still knock
126you out with their loveliness
127so you just wanna drop
128everything and weep, or laugh,
129or gather up the gorgeous
130leaves, falling, and throw yourself
131into them like a dead man,
132or a kid, or dog,
133O the brave deeds of men!
134M*E*N, that is, they with phalli
135dangling from their thighs,
136how they dazzle me with
137their daring exploits
138every time I cross the Detroit River,
139from down under, I mean,
140who else could have given
141themselves so grandly,
142obediently, to this water god,
143this fierce charlatan,
144this glutton for sailors and young boys,
145risking limbs and lives, wordlessly,
146wrestling primordial mud
147so that we, mothers and maids,
148could go shopping across the border
149and save ourselves twenty minutes
150coming and going, chatting about
151this and that, our feet never
152leaving the car, never mind
153the mouth of the tunnel
154is haunted by bits and fragments
155of shattered bone and looking
156every time like Diana’s bridge
157in Paris, this is really grand, isn’t it,
158riding our cars under the river
159and coming out the other side
160illegal aliens, needing passports,
161and feeling like we accomplished
162something, snatched from
163our busy lives, just being there
RPO poem Editors
Ian Lancashire
RPO Edition
2011