my parents and yours,
they cut us from the same thin cloth –
gave us rural ontario pedigrees.
now we let the months just happen,
passing like milkweed on the wind.
april a laugh that bubbles from your gut,
august a shadow twice your height
and december forever a hangnail.
now november crosses his arms
in his dark grey sweater and
stands tall before the sun.
i follow the river home each night and
i sleep in a bed that once held you like a breath.
i wanted to tell you about the air here
how it whistles down from the mountains
through the cracks in my window
and grabs my ankles at night
with the coldest of fingers,
how a home-cooked meal won’t warm me
and the bright lights just yellow the silence.
then your voice slammed all the lights on,
swept the papers from the table,
threw the curtains open
and kicked me in the shins.
this country is vast and
the prairie winters long.
bring me your shoulder,
lay your bags at my door.