four poems
by Meg Freer
The World Returns with a Shudder
until then it had been
an ordinary afternoon
no dusky purples and reds
straining to burst
from my favourite music
and tattoo my skin
you set family truths free
bright, piercing ones
a surprise
as if all the poppies
were to ‘pop’ at once
dark, stormy ones
a flight of bees
from the hive
to sting and shake
things up
you no longer offer
only half the story
a one-fang snakebite
altered details of date and identity
a minor-key dance
of truth wrapped in darkness
I see now those were no gifts
you slide the few facts
to make room for more
like a deep-clean of an old artwork
give me at last the whole story
so we can see the full family portrait
Sans Souci
Down by the bayou, going out to eat meant
holiday dinners at a cafeteria-style restaurant
near Sans Souci, the house my sister and Dad
drove to after Great-Uncle Jimmy died,
where Great-Aunt Lillian hoarded toasters,
blenders, irons and other small appliances,
and they stayed a night in Biloxi on the way, and ate
at an old-style steakhouse with dark wood paneling
and red vinyl club chairs, but at least Dad
could order a drink there, and as it felt festive—
the road trip to Louisiana and a funeral too—
he ordered my sister a drink, a Shirley Temple,
and she was horrified when an elderly lady
made a show of coming over, pointed
at her, leaned down into Dad’s face, “Sir,
that is the youngest legal age I have EVER seen!”
and Dad, being born and bred a polite Southerner,
replied, “Ma’am, the ingredients are 7-Up
and grenadine, with a maraschino cherry,”
and the lady stared and huffed off.
Sans Souci, where my sister saw a dead person
for the first time, whose skin was grey,
and met some distant cousin who looked nothing
like the classical pianist he said he was, in a pale blue suit
with wide lapels and glasses like chemistry goggles,
where there was a feast, with bread pudding
and other sweet desserts, and she learned
that’s what a wake is down in Louisiana,
to sit in a house with all the curtains drawn,
beside strangers who stuff their faces with food.
Dark Days
Constant muttering inside your head bullies you
with doubts, until you can’t remember
when your goals seemed attainable.
Existence seems pointless though you know
you’ve helped many others through rough days.
Your primal wish—every parent’s wish—has never
been simple to ensure: that your children
have reasons to wake up each day.
You know where and when freight trains pass.
You could choose fickle daylight
or sincere darkness to park your old truck
at the crossing. Your children wouldn’t
have wanted the truck anyway,
but for the rest of their lives they will wonder
how it feels to be shoved along the tracks
with the end in sight.
The sound of 1000 people saying “foop” all at once
Night’s breath ignores stotting lambs
you try to count while falling asleep,
feasts on your fear of liars who cycle
through disposable villains
with the tedious efficiency
of targeted weeding.
Beware magnetic particles
and unhinged brachiopods
in your breakfast cereal,
make space for the absurd,
decide how far back you want
your stepping-back leg to go.
Find strength in the swirl, call
your scattered parts to return home,
look for the real heroes—brains
that successfully manage neurons
the way air traffic controllers direct planes.
Photo of Meg Freer
BIO: Meg Freer grew up in Montana and lives in Ontario, where she enjoys being active outdoors year-round. Her prose, poetry and photos have appeared in many journals, and she has published four poetry chapbooks. She is a contributing editor for Traces Journal, is poetry co-editor for The Sunlight Press, and belongs to The Ontario Poetry Society and the League of Canadian Poets. During 2024-25, she was Poet-in-Residence for the McDonald Astroparticle Physics Institute, Queen’s University.