My journey begins in 1960
when Nikita bangs his shoe
and barks “we will bury you,”
pointing missiles right at me,
sparking a trembling in my bones.

I drive all day and night,
pointed at the North Star,
arriving at Cape Tormentine
for the Abegwait ferry
to sparkle me across
the Straits of Nortumberland.

The air smells of myrrh and wildflower honey.
Embraced by angels disguised as natives,
they escort me to an all-you-can-eat
lobster feed at the Church of Saint Ann’s.

Everyone works with callused hands.
No murder happens on this land.
Green-eyed Celtic beauties, bodhivsattvas,
step-dance away in nightly ceilidhs.

James Joseph McGee insists his waterfront farm
must be mine, since the double seater outhouse
has “Milton” carved in its knotty pine.

He shows me a swarm of smelt surging down
Dirty River into the sun gilded ripples
of Saint Mary’s Bay; mussels and razor clams
as if they were assembled on a seafood plate.

He drives me in his horse and buggy over red-dirt
potato fields to the sand-spit at Cavendish.
We gorge on oysters at Malpeque Bay,
and marvel at the splendor of the sunset at Pinette.

This must be what heaven is. I think I’ll stay.