Preemptive Eulogy for a Student Car

 

Cale Plett

 

 

 

You were born on the wrong side of history, but more importantly,
the wrong side of Y2K. Before your day, land yachts roamed
the road. Our greatest predators, iron bones. James Dean and Jay
Gatsby died and lived the American dream, roll the credits, play Bruce
Springsteen. Glory Days is a tragedy of realizing ashes to ashes 

too late. There was nothing a little green car like you could change
by the time you whined out the factory gates. The glowing leaf
on your dashboard was token reassurance that you were something
entirely different than the luxury sedans of past and present. Nobody
my age can afford those now. My great grandpa never knew you, 

but he anticipated your kind. Every time a sports car purred by
he’d slap his thigh and say, that car could pass anything but
a gas station. That wasn’t your problem. Your check engine light
was always there, invisible below the surface, lemon regret at any
moment. I dreaded it. We met when I was eighteen, back when you 

were the cutest car I’d ever seen. You were least like a machine,
which appealed to me. You let me forget that all beings take and give.
Four-cylinder engines run on the same blood pouring through black arteries
crossing my hometown prairies. The number after the V is both
status symbol and potential, but all I needed you to be was something 

which could carry me from the country to the city so I didn’t
suffocate. We ran together, and whenever I couldn’t breathe, we’d go
west to the mountains, east to the lakes, someplace without powerlines
showcasing exercises in perspective. With you, the only direction I
knew was away. You’d already been totaled and badly repaired by 

someone else, with scars that grew from the inside out as you facilitated
my summertime freedom while we killed the places I needed and believed
in. All of this is why I loved you. All of this is why I never gave you
a name. I thought when our time was through I could pretend
none of it had hurt as I laid you, anonymous, in the toxic dirt. 

 

 

Cale Plett (he/they) is a nonbinary writer who lives in Winnipeg, where they are watching and listening for stories. Some they remember, some they forget, and some they turn into poetry, prose, and lyrics. Cale’s poetry and fiction are published in Grain, CV2, The Anti-Languorous Project, and Riddle Fence.

Train : a journal of social distance

Issue #10 : Kim Fahner Joel Robert Ferguson Patrick Grace Dan MacIsaac Jeff Parent Cale Plett

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Kim Fahner lives and writes in Sudbury, Ontario. She was the fourth poet laureate of Sudbury (2016-18), and was the first woman appointed to the role. Kim's latest book of poems is These Wings (Pedlar Press, 2019). She is a member of the League of Canadian Poets, as well as a supporting member of the Playwrights' Guild of Canada. Currently, she is Ontario representative for the Writers' Union of Canada. Kim has recently had poems published in Room, Riddle Fence, and Prairie Fire. She may be reached via her author website at www.kimfahner.com

Joel Robert Ferguson is the author of The Lost Cafeteria (2020, Signature Editions) and holds a Masters in Creative Writing from Concordia University in Montreal. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications including Arc, The Columbia Review, The Honest Ulsterman, The Malahat Review, Orbis, and Southword Journal. He lives in Winnipeg, Treaty 1 territory, with his partner and their three cats.

Patrick Grace is a queer writer from Vancouver. His work has been published in Canadian journals such as Prairie Fire, EVENT, Arc Poetry Magazine, and recently, Grain’s Queer Writers issue. His poetry has been longlisted for CV2’s Young Buck Poetry Prize and twice for PRISM international’s Pacific Spirit Poetry Prize, and his poem “A Violence” won The Malahat Review’s Open Season Award for poetry in 2020. He is the managing editor of Plenitude Magazine.

Dan MacIsaac served for ten years as a director on UVIC’s Environmental Law Centre board. Brick Books published his collection of poetry, Cries from the Ark. His poetry has been published in a wide variety of literary magazines, including filling station, Stand, The Malahat Review, and Arc. Dan MacIsaac’s work has been short-listed for the Walrus Poetry Prize and the CBC Short Story Prize. His website is www.danmacisaac.com. 

Jeff Parent is a poet and stay-home dad from Québec’s Eastern Townships. He has an MA in Creative Writing and English Literature from Concordia University and his poems have been published by The Fiddlehead, Montréal Writes, The/tƐmz/Review, FreeFall Magazine, Shrapnel Magazine, and The Quarantine Review amongst others. Jeff’s first chapbook, This Bygone Route, is now available from 845 Press.

Cale Plett (he/they) is a nonbinary writer who lives in Winnipeg, where they are watching and listening for stories. Some they remember, some they forget, and some they turn into poetry, prose, and lyrics. Cale’s poetry and fiction are published in Grain, CV2, The Anti-Languorous Project, and Riddle Fence.

Fallen

 

Cale Plett

 

You tell me time travel is easiest on clear nights
like this, hands colder than normal. It’s impossible
without fear. Maybe we walked away from Omelas 
to breathe our lives into the air and watch the stars
through ourselves. Cities of gold blur reflections and
flatten transparency and refraction. People pay to name
them, slivers of constellations. You claim your tears
are because history is written backwards, and when time
dares to reach out, we shouldn’t treat it like a party
favor. Then Lucifer jumped and heaven stole his story. 

On the screen, they fall backwards, hands grasping at
where they were. Promise you’ll stay. We are afraid to be
close to those we deem Godless because true loneliness
is having nothing to lose except yourself. Grace, looking
down from the rooftop of a skyscraper. You start singing
Forever Young, Alphaville, and I’m listening, bent around the
sound, Eve’s mouth around the apple. We learned this
creation story with all eyes waiting for her to sin. You and I
are entangled right now, no more breath in the air. It’s taken
a long time to learn that nothing hates us for our hunger.      

 

Cale Plett (he/they) is a nonbinary writer who lives in Winnipeg, where they are watching and listening for stories. Some they remember, some they forget, and some they turn into poetry, prose, and lyrics. Cale’s poetry and fiction are published in Grain, CV2, and The Anti-Languorous Project.