Near Miss

Laura Matwichuk

• Publisher: Nightwood Editions
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9780889713536
• eBook ISBN: 9780889711419
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Canadian Poetry
• Index: Literature

Near Miss considers the relationship between close calls and the tenuous conditions of contemporary life. From actual cataclysms such as meteor collisions and volcanic eruptions to everyday failures and accidents, these inventive poems collide with the perpetual unease created by life's unpredictability while contemplating mortality, fragility, gratitude and hopefulness.

... When the Emergency Broadcast

System proclaims this is only a test, you

leave the TV on because you've gotten

used to the sound. You keep waiting

for the heat to come on, for the regular

broadcast to resume, for a new sensation

to quicken inside you like the sight

of that fleet of ghost-planes lifted

from the desert, reanimated, hovering

over your house as if everything is fine.

— "Decommissioned Planes"

Inferno

[Dream: Ash Plumes]

You cut ash plumes out of magazines,

mostly geometric shapes.

Trapezoid plumes, rhombus plumes.

Plumes with the edge of a plane wing still visible.

Geode plumes that keep sparkly secrets.

Eruption column encroaching on the corner of a building.

Water tower enveloped by a dizzying, white, cumulonimbus mass.

You crease the shape, tape the edges.

The paper is real and architectural.

You feel sad because you’ve made something beautiful

that is also a shelter to protect you

from you don’t know what.

The Real Thing

Fly to Yellowstone to see for ourselves: cruising altitude, circadian rhythm loss, molecules messed up by time. The historic continuity of Old Faithful calms us. We sleep in electric skies. Dream black and white Ansel Adams photographs. Dream live webcam feeds which automatically refresh every twenty seconds. Once, we stared at a photograph on a museum wall until a docent politely told us to stop. There is an appropriate amount of time to stand in contemplation of art and we’d crossed it. Now it’s sunrise at the cone geyser and our shutters will not close. Tourist wanders into the shot, disrupting the vista. Adams’ tripod teeters on rock. A photograph surrounded by stanchions begs to be stared at. It’s not what it looks like. Our insides are flooded—continuous gallons but no waves. For the first time in years, I recall the thing that happened at the Lake Hotel. Long, low formations of limestone and shale. A tripod steadied by two large boulders. Black “West Thumb” of Yellowstone Lake, Riddle and Delusion in the distance. Empty cup teetering on the seatback tray like a suicidal diver. All this endless repetition and we haven’t changed one bit: You still believe the real thing will be better than pixels. I still hope Mr. Fifteen-C will move his neck pillow without my having to ask.

[Testimony: JFK]

Seeing land near the runway,

we investigate, take action.

The radio tower

a hundred feet below us.

Colour not close enough

to tell.

Head home, passengers.

Congested airspace, so little room

for error in crowded skies.

Souvenirs

Glass Christmas ornament from Mount St. Helens.

Decorative egg from Sakurajima.

Bubble-wrapped Krakatoa coffee mug.

Sixteen-ounce Haleakala beer glass.

“I Love Vesuvius” paperweight.

“I Love Cotopaxi” iPhone case.

Mount Nyiragongo bookmark.

Bar of ash soap from Eyjafjallajökull.

Five-hundred-piece puzzle of evening light hitting Chimborazo’s north side, two alpacas.

Refrigerator magnet from Montserrat’s Soufrière Hills.

Hawaii Volcanoes National Park Centennial pin.

Bottled Merapi ash.

Hologram bumper sticker depicting a heart-shaped steam cloud above Bulusan.

V-neck El Chichón T-shirt.

Mauna Loa “Wish you were here” notecard set with matching envelopes.

Bezymianny 2016 pocket calendar.

Lava-rock pendant necklace on a sterling silver chain from Rainier.

Carved lava rock ashtray from Mount Pavlof.

Huaynaputina bird feeder.

“I Climbed Lassen” green and orange, iron-on fabric patch.

Meet Me in Little Venice

Because your leg is still broken,

we make several unscheduled stops

along the Grand Canal, former site

of nautical spectacles. According

to our brochure, Louis xiv’s model

ships once looped the liquid runway

where grotesque fish now slurp algae.

You crouch in discomfort, but there’s

no time to linger when each vista

in France’s premier tourist attraction

spills into the next, a labyrinth

of seamless gardens. I wish we could

skip Little Venice and be fine with it.

Instead, it’s the finish line we limp

toward, catching our quadrupled

reflections in gilt-framed mirrors

lining the marathon route. Pedestrian

traffic flows quickly away from us

in search of guided tours, orange juice

kiosks, La Buvette du Dauphin.

Is that what winning looks like?

Sweaty and injured, we’ll never achieve

it. I’m prepared to go the distance,

but as the late October sun manufactures

movement on the surface of the Swiss

Ornamental Lake, you stop. Sun your

withered ankle at the water’s edge, Aircast

Walking Boot upright in royal grass.

Home Stretch

for J. B.

When ten lanes narrow back to two

somewhere east of the Port Mann

without the slightest tectonic rumble

from the Cascadi...

Table of contents

• [Dream: Three hundred and seventeen years]
• Insomnia
• Interior
• Inferno
• Notes
• Acknowledgements
• About the Author