Cautious of our black pooch

who wags a gust of snow at him,

the postman clutches his can of mace

as he hands me my spring parcel:

Dominion seed onion bulbs,

green embryos in an airtight box.

White curd flakes set like skin

around acid-clipped maples and birches

in our fenced-in yard.

In Prince William Sound

blackened baby seals surge


against man-oiled shores,

the wide-eyed mother harp

fur greased stiff

like the quills of a porcupine

flails black-mouthed

in oil-stained sea,

her meaty flippers

no longer a delicacy

for Newfoundland freezers.

My son erupts from a dream

where black ants invade his Superman pillow

his breathing raucous

like mother seal hawking up

blackened mucus.

I cling to him

as the snow


spring bud.

McRites Press                                                           ©Murielle Cyr 2012


About Murielle Cyr

Writer, organic gardener, soapmaker, listener.
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