I Look out the Window at the Snowfall
and I remember you. I know it never snowed when we were
together, and, no, the white snow does not remind me of your
white skin, but I still cannot forget when, on Anderson Hill,
I sobbed on your chest, for a good hour or longer, in front of
your remorseful tears, enkindled by your racism, even though
I now know a three-month romance cannot erase your forty
years of white ignorance, even though I now know you were not
necessarily a racist. I look back now as the bus
moves through Gatineau and crosses to the Ottawa side, and
as you fly from Victoria accompanied by a man
with whom you have fallen out of love—I realize racism
will becloud my relationships with men, white or not, and please
do not say sorry, partly because I hate that word, partly
because I am not angry at you. Do you still remember
the poetry I read you? Are you still in love with me? I
do mean it when I tell you that you are my Qur'anic angel
perching, there, at McNeil beach, your head not on my shoulder; alone
you reminisce about our kisses in the morning, my love
for coffee, your love for coffee shops, and our juvenile sex.
I still die at the movement of your beautiful lips when you
indulge in deep thinking, as though you are printing a kiss on
a beloved's face. I find it odd that no man before me
had been enamoured of your ethereal hand gestures or
effeminate voice. Your love and benevolence I treasure
through my insomniac nights. I am almost certain I do
not want to date you, and, yes, I think I am in love with you.
To a Former Friend
An ugly smile;
a silent whirlpool.
Grey fountains with no water,
not a drop or two;
black statues with no meaning,
not even the dejected child statue.
Void it is,
Leonard Cohen’s singing;
bleak they are,
the streets besmirched with snow.
Shattered ice on a river;
an apathetic memory.
I love Montreal
1975, 1997, 2018