Volant

Volant

Conversation has twisted again—knots, knots, more knots. Serviettes cradle knives and spoons. Under the toxic music’s rush, animated waiters paddle against dinner currents.

But this is more
how your hand
has become a corn stalk
in October wind—
an exotic dancer
tearing word strips
from hot roaring air—
and this is how
I am engulfed
by so much silence
that I hear only
your whispering fingers—
their commentary,
their machinery
as they move, constructing.

Hunting night fires at the sun, blood smears the windows dark and time is sacrificed. We order red wine, half-forgotten memories, more red wine.

I didn’t know
Eric is now in France,
still struggling with the language—
tense tenses.
You’ve bandaged Mary’s life,
given the accident meaning,
put her self-esteem on crutches,
placed Mary at the door,
even though there will never be
an umbrella wide enough
to protect her from the pain.
Frank will always exist
on a diesel road—
fog between the diesel trees,
under diesel clouds—
playing capitalist checkers
with a wicked grin.

And you,
who have been
the Susan of countless dreams—
chanteuse de concordia discors—
you now reside in Toronto—
a pleasant neighbourhood
with pleasant bars.
There is someone,
you don’t mention a name,
just meals and a park.
You have a new job,
the weather’s been warm.
You’ve decided
to wear green this year.
You’re planning
a trip to Spain,
haven’t decided when
and tomatoes seem
especially tasteless of late.

Your hand, which rises to drop, weaves stories into Degas impressions and gauze. Expectant, I wait for take off, wonder if a single feather will fall.