by Hayden Ward

We set apart eve-
ning from afternoon, lemon
juice and the now powdering

mushrooms in the cups,
laid in the bed for half an hour.
You had a shower, then we drank it,

waited an hour more, went up
and behind the pulpit of Knox
Mountain past the flowery

field of saskatoons.
JJ had such laughter
and yelling flowers! we ate the bells

of them side by side
to shield each other from nothing,
there was no wind.

Above, a flicker fell on us
like knitting, a perl of a bird.
It must have been so

afraid, its nest somewhere off
in the trees. Watch the dying
tree, you said. We had

found a small hummock
for the blanket, your favourite word.
Across the expanse, the sun

spread itself purple, pinkish.
The ground we laid on was something
beneath us. Okanagan’s chest

stayed us in a rhythm, a
breathing. I am so
happy I took this chance, I thought

I said. I’m so happy
you are both my friend.
Above, the flicker

still whorled and dove on us.
Waiting for the end, JJ took
out his cigarettes.

I only have a few left,
we might have to share them.
Here, take one.

---



Hayden Ward lives and writes from Tiohtià:ke (Montréal, QC). Ward holds an undergraduate degree from the University of British Columbia Okanagan and his poems have appeared in EVENT, Grain, Nu Lit House, and in the 2021 edition of Best Canadian Poetry.

BACK TO CONTENTS