The Year I Moved To Montreal
The year I moved to Montreal, I rode the Trans-Canada in a trucker's cab through those pine forests planted fifteen years ago. A backpack so big, I could put my own corpse inside. He eyeballed my knees at the skirt line, lust tied to the mirror by a silver cross, a photo of his wife and son. "Get yourself a coat. A good one." The year I moved to Montreal, I slept on a flattened box for a flat screen TV, 40 inches, Inside the alcove of a bank, my face smeared with cigarette ash, and shoe dust, Cinderella with blonde hair dyed lime green, Would the prince know my Doc Martins? The year I moved to Montreal, I danced off my step-father's hands on the mountain to the beat of twenty drummers, and sweat sprayed like a fountain, a reverse baptism. Only the Pleiadies blanketed me Only the wind violated my bare skin. The year I moved to Montreal, I learned these phrases well Bonjour. Bienvenue. Merci. Bon journee. I sang for my supper, For the man, w...