The Crossing

poem

by Kasia Juno

The Crossing

Last December we took the ferry
from Halifax to Dartmouth
to find a store that sells rain boots.
We boarded the ferry in the late afternoon.
You told me about the ship that exploded
in the harbour in 1917, and about the girl you kissed
some weeks ago. The one in your sculpting class
who wears hand-knit sweaters.

My hands slid on the ferry rail.
You had started smoking since I’d last seen you.
You said, “The ship was carrying a thousand crates
of guncotton, napkins soaked in Benzyl acid…”
I watched you lean over the water.
“The lighthouse keeper must have been sleeping”

Halfway across the harbour you turned to face Halifax.
You let go of the rail, your knuckles glassy with sea spray.
“There, that’s where the French boat was sailing”
You pointed to The Narrows, to where the ships collided,
to that exact patch of water.

It must have been raining,
why else was my face streaming
and your face shining in the harbour lights?
Halifax lay behind us, blurred in low cloud.
I wanted to ask, what colour were her eyes?
I knew they would be grey.
You turned towards me and said
“The navigators must have been sleeping”

Curving your hands to mime ships, you said,
“It was too late to change course,
they were going too fast”
Your hair darkened with water.
The wool sweater you wore grew heavy.
You lit up a cigarette.
I didn’t recognize your clothes.

Wind slashed the hull,
the halyards danced like shoelaces above our heads.
You watched, your face still and yellow in the light.
“Too late to starboard,” you said.
I covered my eyes with gloved hands,
“The sailors were sleeping”

I held on to the rail and saw it all:
The ships collided tenderly in their slow arch.
The awe bond sailors stood on deck.
The civilians watched paralyzed on dock,
like the people of Pele.

Firemen burst to the harbour edge,
armed with hoses, riding on top of the Patricia,
sirens wailing. Children danced behind the fire truck,
down to the harbour edge. “Too late! Too late!” you cried,
“The harbour was set aflame”

The wind blasted the waves upright.
My face stung with grits of salt and tears, and you,
bending to the rail, cheeks shining in the light, you begged

“It was just a kiss”

The ferry docked at Dartmouth.
The water burned blood-black
and orange under the gangplank.
You pointed north--out there
to where it all went wrong.
Nobody warned them
“The watchmen were sleeping”

You could have told me,
You, who saw the ships coming,
You still urged me to the harbour
to watch the blaze.