Poetry Through Pictures: On the Path to the College Pond

Jules Bourbeau ’25

A&E Editor

I. I was thrust into the world far too early

& I still live inside that rift in time.

I desperately tried to catch up:

to make time slow down for me,

though it rattled over me relentlessly

in the convenience stores and lobbies

and forests.

So I got ahead where I could –

sometimes I fell behind.

 I only wanted to be better.

II. Two days after my birthday,

you went into the hospital.

They told us your arteries were blocked

ninety-nine percent

& I knew you may die.

Propped up in a drugstore

on the way home from the hospital,

blinding blue cleaning fluids,

concrete backroom bathroom.

III. I left when you seized up and asked for help.

I’m sorry. I ran behind the hospital into

the woods, crying because

I abandoned you,

I may lose you,

I was five years old again

with my own sickness,

stranded in an endless maze of

hospitals.

IV. I climbed over the cemetery wall

onto the path to College Pond.

Heavy plum quilt of clouds,

dry grass & droning wind hum.

Stormy indifference as I raise my hands

to the sky & feel that I might fall over.

V. I watch the sunset from the bench,

clumsy turning pages through thick gloves.

Perfect mirror still water reflects as

a chorus explodes from above:

Geese with fiery red sun bellies

leave me behind for the winter. 

VI. I try to watch the sunrise

to find a reason to stay alive but

I fail.

The forest too dark,

the path too frozen,

my legs too sore.

I consider falling asleep,

freezing to death

or using my pocket-knife

to cut my wrist.

But a small instinct tells me that

I’ll never be found here,

not for a long time.

So I crawl out of the woods

on my hands & feet.

By the time I reach my street,

the sun begins to rise.

VII. A sense of crashing doom draws me

back to the pond. The sun

ascends to greet the moon &

I notice otter tracks

on the boardwalk. I feel

as if I’m closing a long book.

With an apocalyptic calm,

I accept the news.

VIII. The waters constantly shift

new contents ashore. Framing

a swimming goose with driftwood,

shallow detritus dense pools.

Could my own body lie beneath?

A small island pushes off from the shore

& sets afloat for the opposite side.

IX. Painted turtle and bark stripped branch

look the same underwater.

Cracked open, showing gold beneath – 

kintsugi. The sun warms my back

face-down on the boardwalk

& the water is bluer

than I’ve ever seen.

X. The forest erupts with green as

algae dots the pond’s surface.

Flowers burst between the boards,

far off weeping willow mists.

I vow to do better, dance to the wind.

I won’t be here again for many months,

but as the sun comes out, it seems to me,

the entire world has begun to bloom.