The Land Beyond

Matt Rader

our house is all tall grass and alder sapling,
broom scrub and blackberry bramble,
small neighbourhood of cedar,
odd hemlock and coniferous carcass,
deer-trail, foot-path, access-road.
We have lived here now one whole fall,
bordered by par three Longlands and Crown Isle,
complete with gold plated fire-hydrants
and spiked (by neighbour) with dog-
shit in the ninth - I don't
envy the jerk who makes that putt. I have
smoked dope between the ribs
of every house on our street,
while the ribs still showed. Before
the gyp-rock and vinyl and deadbolts,
I stole nails and 2×4's from each lot,
stashed them in the couchgrass and brome
where the deer sleep, dragged them
through mud on weekends
to an outpost at the edge of the bush:
three cedars locked together by metal and wood,
tucked out of sight by a fir-blind.
Here we smoke and have conversation,
shoot a constellation of aluminum cans
with pellet guns, chase rabbits.
This is plateau country. At night
frogs talk in the holding pond,
headlights blink down in the valley:
dead-still, we imagine ourselves
lost not far from the edge of the trail,
and a small panic happens in my breast -
O Lord, don't let them find us.

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