Poetry By Rhonda Melanson

Sean Benham CC




Memories of a Fallen Terabithia*

On her street, undeveloped land. Thin 
and thick trees. Branches and brambles, 
a Terabithia without the swing rope, no 
creek to feet fall into. Instead, insular sets 

of forts and hideouts she could explore, 
the crude handiwork of skeleton frames. 
Blankets she could bring from home, adorning
them before they are discovered missing--

What the hell are you doing over there, anyway?

or perhaps less missed, a margarine tub from basement,
later filled with rainwater and mosquitoes, a clear, pepper
soup her little inner witch could pretend-brew
as she hesitantly breathes deep the chaos of the trees.

Two boys, older, bigger. Emerging from structure 
more haphazard. One of them utters hey.
Then a casual question thrown as a dare--
wanna take your clothes off?

Like the rest of her little body, her head shakes.

She vows to heal from the question. Proceed
to build that bridge to Terabithia. Dismantle
their shack, stick by stick, lay down succinctly
each plank. With her tiny feet, smash the fibres

 into the wild earth still beneath. Throw from her
margarine tub more invisible soup, clear a spot
for sunshine. Will it still be walkable and will 
she find a place beyond, worthy of dreaming?

Or will she just keep shaking, shaking, shaking?


*in reference to the children's book Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson

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A graduate of Queen’s University Artist In The Community Education Program, Rhonda Melanson has been published in several print and online magazines and is a recent recipient of the The Ted Plantos Memorial Award in Ontario, Canada. She is the author of two chapbooks: Gracenotes (Beret Days Press) and My Name is Mary (Alien Buddha Press). She also co-edits a literary blog Uproar.



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