As a memorial grew on Baycrest Avenue in Toronto, where three-year-old Elijah Marsh was found lifeless in the snow on Thursday, the city came together in mourning. Below, a poem for Elijah by Lynn Crosbie.
Snow moving in orbits, the wolf-call of the wind: time to
Put on my boots and head out,
To make small, blunt tracks and little hand-angels,
Oh no, that feels like fire
The fire that begins above my feet and spreads and spreads,
It's hard to remember,
Yes, I want to go home, that's what I wanted to –
The air is a memory of being born, before I came to Neptune
Is she this way, or that way
Down this path and by the hole below the window where a gust of
I will lie down
This time I want to talk to someone, I don't feel shy
I would say that what attacks you is invisible, and does not stop:
I would direct you to my mother who is more sad than mad as I lie
Down on a gush of her hot tears and exhale, at last, a sun-beam.
Lynn Crosbie is a Toronto writer. Her new book, Where Did You Sleep Last Night, comes out with Anansi this spring.