Hielo

Many years before Waiting for light On the shortest day Of the longest season That encroaches On Fall and spring My father showed me winter With Gilles Vigneault

Mon pays N’est pas un pays Mon pays, c’est l’hiver Our country is Not a country Our country is winter Sang Gilles As he waited for a nation That never came

He was a boy from Côte Nord Where it snows Or snowed Up to the windows Second floor, they say Or said Deep and treacherous As jungle quicksand To which He submitted Nationless

Many years before Our gathering in light I napped outside A baby in winter sun My mother covered me in sheepskin Pink-cheeked bundle

Many years later One February I read 100 years of Solitude My mother’s copy Starting with a memory Long ago A boy taken by his father to discover ice How did an idea as cold As 100 lonely years Come from a place That doesn’t know winter

There is no forgetting winter Our cold is not the pain of childbirth Or at least what I’ve been told My mother’s tales of Endorphin-induced amnesia

Once our feet have felt The floor freeze Overnight after Going to bed Windows open For the last time Until next time We call up hot sun From memory

We can’t forget Layers upon layers Sweating it out on transit Alongside those who also remember Sheepskin on skin Alongside those Who have just discovered ice

We can’t forget Once our toes have disappeared Into a tingle At the toe Of a boot

We can’t forget Once lips have frozen Words on our tongues Waiting for the thaw To form syllables

Many years ago and later Februarys split our bodies in two Winds howling Like soon-to-be-mothers Pushing To the brink of what we can take Before emerging in spring With the best of our mothers Warming our skin Like the jungle sun

Many years later Today Our country is not a country It is winter For now In these long nights When dark dusks Encroach on gray days I reach for you A royal you All of you Like a leaf stretches Towards the jungle sun