Hark this..

Hark this howling voice that bends the ear to the mites sorry sorrow , beneath squelched dreams yonder the yarrow where we once drifted along the banks tide. You lifted `Neath the canopy of leaves the fruitful flower and placing it betwixt my hair above my left ear, whispering June bugs hummed dolorous as my tears rolled down dropping in droplets saturating the ledge, I followed with my eyes till they dropped in the concave of the hollow bow, to port we found our refuge, but it was here I sought my haven a Guinevere to your Lawrence. The river rushing through now, a reminder a constant reminder as the waves lash against the walls of the The China we respectfully call Lachine. Remember how you longed for her hair that draped her shoulders cascading and tethering and coiled around your soul. Your half native blood. Mohawk fury burning in your veins . Your mother died so long ago when you were young. and we laughed in the kitchen as you showed me her newly arrived Medicare card the government still sends. This affair, it was meant to be only a one night stand and faithfully we failed to make it last any longer. You hover over the sink and tell me there is a barbecue on the reservation you have to go, and with these stabs I take leave.

Still the next day I can feel your arms wrapped around me, its as if we are still locked in an amorous embrace. I carried you to work that day, and later I brought you home.

MK
photo of St Lawrence river: MK