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Twilight: the last ferry leaves Vancouver
for the tiny islands.
Tsawwassen blinks out,
rows of bolted plastic chairs
and old vending machines
gone blurred, crossing over.
Sotto voce, a woman croons
under the water, her hair
spilling luminous and phosphorescent
across the depths. The drowned
love this hour, before the stars
are let down like bait to tempt them,
before the steam moans out
and the captain settles back for a smoke.
The others on the boat
talk, drink coffee, drift upstairs;
two lovers stand at the railing
for the sheer terror of feeling
something might happen.
A moment ago they were sure
they would die for each other.
Then the kiss ended -
she leaned a little away,
his arm fell, everyone
turned towards the islands
they knew were out there,
willing them to appear.
Magma No 11 (Winter 1997)