The Pit. Tara Borin

The Pit

      The

      Pit

      Tara Borin

      

2021

      Copyright © Tara Borin, 2021

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, www.accesscopyright.ca, [email protected].

      Nightwood Editions

      P.O. Box 1779

      Gibsons, bc v0n 1v0

      Canada

      www.nightwoodeditions.com

      Cover design: Angela Yen

      Cover art and illustrations: Karen Thomas

      Typesetting: Shed Simas / Onça Design

      

      Nightwood Editions acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada, and the Province of British Columbia through the bc Arts Council.

      This book has been produced on 100% post-consumer recycled, ancient-forest-free paper, processed chlorine-free and printed with vegetable-based dyes.

      Printed and bound in Canada.

      Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

      Title: The pit / Tara Borin.

      Names: Borin, Tara, author.

      Description: Poems.

      Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 2020035227X | Canadiana (ebook) 20200352342 | ISBN 9780889713949 (softcover) | ISBN 9780889713956 (HTML)

      Classification: LCC PS8603.O75 P58 2021 | DDC C811/.6—dc23

      The Westminster Hotel in Dawson City, Yukon, known locally as the Pit, has been in operation since the early 1900s. The Pit is the Yukon’s oldest and longest running bar and hotel, with sloping floors, shared bathrooms upstairs, and some of the most interesting characters you could ever hope to meet. Over the years, it’s inspired artwork in many different mediums (including gingerbread) and I hope it will continue to do so for years to come.

      This book is for everyone who has found home at the Pit, for better and for worse.

      Beer Parlour

      Desire Paths

      In the long absence of light, a husky’s howls drive us from our singular

      cells to trace paths pressed in snow: they bisect the frozen river, vacant lots, the barren school field—

      all roads lead to the Pit.

      Cold air smokes as we pull open the door. Hard to heat a room so big in weeks of forty below—

      we keep our toques on, learn to flirt in our parkas, dance in our winter boots.

      Held in perpetual Christmas lights’ glow, curtains drawn against the street, we pull hands from pockets to lay bare our secrets like dark gems.

      They glint among small change, crumpled General Store receipts, bits of loose tobacco—

      we palm them across the bar, leave them at the bottle-lined altar in exchange for an ounce of forgetting swirled golden in a glass.

      Here is where we find the shortest distance to each other:

      bar top, schnapps sticky, plywood dance floor that feels like it could give at any moment, the house band a jukebox onstage.

      Last-call crush, we open our arms, make love to the room, tip the bartender and stumble into the street, faces turned up like children to catch whirling stars on our tongues.

      Church Key

      Found rattling about in the kitchen drawer of a rented house, the handle worn where folded fingers grip, engraved Maprosa darkened with tarnish. I take it for my own, take it to my Friday night shift. Bustling up and down the length of the bar I pop the tops off bottles lined up in a row then turn to mix a rye and ginger all with the key tucked neatly in my hand: my secret to speed. Between beers I turn it over and over, the flat of it gently slapping my palm. I am never without it. I wonder what epiphanies it unlocked before me. It opens the door to relief, sanctuary from the daily assault. Sanctuary from lonely social housing apartments. Sanctuary from the past that haunts you, the things you can’t control, the things done to you and done to you. I’ll guide you through the darkness into the amber light, to a congregation of familiars. My church key always fits, snicks inside whatever lock you’re bound by—it will always let you in.

      List of Duties in a Subarctic Dive Bar

      If the temperature outside is twenty-five below or colder leave all the faucets running and flush the toilets hourly.

      R. has a two-drink limit. A. likes a coaster. Remember, Mrs. O. takes a chilled pilsner glass with her bottle of Blue. Never keep her waiting.

      If someone reveals residential school horrors, listen with your whole body.

      If a customer becomes unresponsive and overdose is suspected,

      call the nursing station, then administer the naloxone kept behind the bar. Be sure to write everything down in the incident book. This is your therapy.

      At the end of each shift, pour a kettle of boiling water into the ice well drain. It keeps down the bioslime.

      Wrap your cash in the blue vinyl bag and feed it to the Snake.

      You are entitled to one staff drink. Choose wisely.