Three poems from Un Libre Favor (An Open Gift, or Abundance)
That’s why we smelled of rust
we weren’t able to get to the lighthouse lenses
we wanted to see the sea garden
the tideline
or swim out to the island
that’s why we smelled of tar
black pitch
rowboat sludge
our feet spread out upon contact with the granite
we fell straight in
or as cannonballs
we opened the skin of the waters
for a moment we bore the weight of the maternal
an atonal chant
in the dunes
in it
we carve the muscles of the glottis
then
all vanishes
saltpeter iodine algae oil intelligence
the voices of god
the lenses of red glass
all of it
It was my execution day
I moved with ease, could even embark
I remembered all the codes
you say
that my face is a novel
the pages struck from it are the humus of my character
on the table that might have been mine
a pile of forms I never submitted
the day fritters away as it usually does
and in recovery from losses
a hair clasp
—we tied our hair back with black ribbons—
can’t be recovered
tottering
in the mist
you throw your belongings into the bag
maybe you’ll be unable to get off the train
be unable to board
from the colour of time I get my character
like the March hare
you alone sit down at that table
facing the houses you tried to inhabit
a wind blew them away
We were talking
and the conversation was like an igloo
a white thread
a vegetal weaving
a dome
You
hunter
spoke of the chromatic placement of the quartzes1
you felled the deer so its body would freeze in the air
dawn chirped from outside the window
an infinite
bursts and breathes
if a druid were to arrive today in my language
it would be a column of greenery
go with the dogs
with your feet gauge the chestnut woods where the waters weave
they are enormous passages
the verse turns and returns at the end of its furrow
everything’s dug deep
the tomb the well
*
We reddened the rose
using blood
1 In neolithic mamoas (dolmens, tombs), pebbles of white quartz were placed in the wall facing sunrise.
Photograph © Marc Falardeau
