The Fieldstone Review

Milk Soup

by Shauna Eveleigh Harris

I think of you and the
milk soup
you made for me
on the stove-top
in your basement suite;
you threw rocks
up at my City Park window
like I was Juliet.

Years later, I discovered that
my apartment was closed up;
it was against Saskatoon fire codes
to live at the top
of a 100-year old house,
with only one window
that wouldn't open.

I think about your
long-toothed smile and shiny gums;
the way you danced at Oktoberfest
in Humboldt, like Goofy.

I remember your foreign car -
Was it an Audi? I had never seen one
before but you filled the trunk with speakers,
boomers and bass from a shop
on 33rd Street;

I brought you fresh-baked
chocolate chip cookies,
warm, buttery spots staining
the brown paper bag.

Sitting in your Audi
outside of Riley's Night Club,
you begged me not to
disassociate myself
from the truth -
that's what it was called -
the cult of Jehovah's Witnesses
we both belonged to.
Your dad and only brother
both not allowed at family occasions.
What did they do? I asked
Ask them yourself, you said.
Besides, who would talk to them anyway?
They were disfellowshipped, ex-communicated
apostates.

You told me how much you cared
and I remember how you watched
stone-faced
from the driver's seat
a rearview perspective
of his hands, his long fingers
up my respectable grey skirt
inside me;

drunk on Cherry Whiskey
and Southern Comfort,
head lolling in the backseat
on our way to someone's wedding
in Regina.

I missed the whole thing
- the wedding that is -
threw up in the girls' bathroom
no one to hold my hair back;
stumbled to pass out,
begged you to stay with me.

I think of how you disappeared
right before I did.

I think of you.