At the bottom of Prescott Street
the sinkhole has opened again.
City trucks bury its secret
with gravel so heavy it feeds
the underworld. Above, black
market after-parts shatter
the silence of bird shit falling
from rafters screaming
with starlings. Under, concrete
puddles of mineralized tissue form
crowns from when dentists flushed
to the sewer and baked clay pipes
got wrecked by trees til they leaked teeth.
Frightened, all this inside knowledge
all I want is to get to the top
of the hill in one shaking piece
wearing a coat I dug out for Spring.
Instead I unearth evidence of life:
a tissue of lies crumpled up
in my pocket, a tooth my child
lost years ago, woven through
my fingers like time, slipping
away in the sinkhole.
Maggie Burton is a Newfoundland writer, violinist, and municipal politician. Her debut book of poetry, Chores (Breakwater Books, 2023), was shortlisted for the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award. Her work has been published in Prism, The Malahat Review, Riddle Fence, Room, Best Canadian Poetry, and elsewhere.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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