The Radley-Swett Line
I live in a land of borders, and the boundaries of
my fiefdom, my medieval Brunswick, the Methamphetamine
Kingdom, this sovereign land,
is the Radley-Swett Line.
A Frostian unmended stone wall, and, every evening, I walk the wall with the
sigil of this Kingdom, my sentinel dog, Radley.
Radley and I patrol and make sure those
who lie within are defended.
During the day Radley and I go beyond the
Radley-Swett Line, into the Other Realms,
Mr. Rogers’ Someplace Else,
where the geography reverts to names more conventional.
Across storied Route 1, the road of the Fall Line, the Androscoggin River,
the boundary of Cumberland and Sagadahoc, Radley and I
walk the swinging bridge into Topsham,
20 — .
We march up the Topsham Heights, and look down the Androscoggin
Valley, to the Fort Andross Mill, the decaying green of
the Frank Wood Bridge, the rocks of head of tide, the Sea Dog,
and Merrymeeting Bay beyond, off in the water vapor
distance.
The Androscoggin Brunswick-Topsham Riverwalk Advisory Committe tells me , “The mighty Androscoggin drives development”, and the “Plan of the Androscoggin River shewing the Falls, Mills, & other property of the Brunswick Company,
[was] made October 1835 by L. Baldwin, Engineer”.
The water smoke of the fall line penetrates me and I sublimate
into vapor and dissolve into that 1835,
15 years after the divorce,
when Massachusetts and Maine decided to go their ways as friends.
But even then, as Radley and I patrol the Other Realms of this Maine
of the 19th century as “L. Baldwin, Engineer”,
the enemies remain, the outsiders remain, and the sentinel dog must defend
the edge of the frontier from all invaders, be they Abenaki, French, or Somali.
Or a lonely time traveller from 20 — .
At the sound of his baritone bark,
I am pulled back into 2016.
Radley warns about the darkness of the woods beyond, of shadowy skulkers,
I can hear the jackets flapping in the October breeze.
I catch glimpses of reflective tape.
But it is only the white of a Trump-Pence sign.
One cheap aluminum pole pulled half out
of the Earth, caught in wind from the river,
and I thought the white of surrender, where they will soon be,
this ugly ticket.
Because we can’t do that (can we?) but we could, and we did, and he is.
I can feel myself dissolving again, not wanting to return to the reality of 20 — .
I persist. I remain here. For now.
I’ve been unhinged in time so long I no longer know when I am.
I only know I am tired of walls, I’m tired of division, of every border
imaginable save one.
We exit the Heights and return back to 20 — .
Down the valley
across the Frank Wood Bridge and the stones of the Fall Line,
the Androscoggin/Sagadahoc
into Cumberland, Route 1, Brunswick
and beyond the Radley-Swett Line into the Methamphetamine
Kingdom.
All you need know is this. This.
This is the only wall I’ll defend.
“The Radley-Swett Line” was originally published in The New Guard, Volume VII
