Bridge

February 14, 2012 § Leave a comment

Grandmother I have learned your language twice:
First, out of default.
Second, out of necessity.

I have never dipped my hand in the St Lawrence River,
but I picture it cold.

Out in St Lambert, they were foreign to the city
or were we?

Les Anglais, they always hear Lawrence when its Laurent or Laurence,
don’t they? They butcher it don’t they?

Here, I have used your language so,
so much so, that I have forgotten my own.

Perhaps the waters, in spring, will no longer be ice cold.
Perhaps one day, I’ll return back, one of their own.

About these ads

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Bridge at The Room 22.

meta

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 28 other followers

%d bloggers like this: