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, who only needed me to walk
in lace underwear he bought me,
Around an empty condo.
He pet my hair and called me his old sweatshirt. Sweetheart.
I woke to $200 and ate McDonalds and pretended to
go to Concordia.
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, who only needed me to walk
in lace underwear he bought me,
Around an empty condo.
He pet my hair and called me his old sweatshirt. Sweetheart.
I woke to $200 and ate McDonalds and pretended to
go to Concordia.
Comments
Post a Comment