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by Kyra Sutton

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Remember: you dropped in once; pierced-septum, crashing grin— you didn’t blend in. Noticed how West Island windows are missing blinds; how the people smoke different, the air wrinkles, whirls, is white. The streets whine, shameless, all the way down Saint Charles Boulevard, past the sharp-edge blocks of retirement homes. You touched in, just barely, lit a cigarette against the wind’s high kick. When you walked off you left a piece of your face.

Here is everything I’ll know about myself. All blown up and yellow. Are you a ghost or just fog? Remember these streets belong to the dogs. And rumour has it the skunk is back with a vengeance and men in shirts prescribe antidepressants to the pine trees. But don’t look around just yet— we’re not past Antoine-Faucon. See those kids playing hockey? They grew up and moved away; now parents take care of their parents, now people are older, and somehow, it’s all your fault. The goldendoodle sniffing at my dad’s red body. No one gets better and I wonder, do you ever think of my mother? Alone in the kitchen, scrubbing the sheet pan. It’s 2am. Go to sleep, it’s okay, go on now, but she won’t. Remember?

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