My Lost Childhood

Colours
Are
My childhood
Bridges over the
River Grand.
I grew up there:
Downtown ballet lessons and lunch at Diana's Reataurant.
Galt, Ontario:
End of an era.


Operation Municpality!
Nimwits in the capitol,
Toronto, also known as Cabbagetown,
Assessed potential
Revenue, and
Integrated Galt, my hometown, with two
Other cities- my childhood disappeared.

'

Mamacita in the Morning

Mamacita in the morning
where are you rushing to,
scooting 'cross my terrace
and over the old stone wall?

Mamcita in the morning
slow down and say hello,
brush up against my kindness,
sit and purr with me awhile.

Mamacita, Mamacita in the morning,
where? In the canyon,
why? Is your lover there?
Or is it Old Raton?

Birds are in the Canyon too,
Mama, is your belly empty?
I have food for you,
there is no need to hunt the Canadita.

Wild Mamacita, the Canadita calls,
and you cannot ignore it's pull,
any more than I can follow
over the canyon wall.


'

National Chocolate Day

This is a new statutory holiday in Canada, to be celebrated in February, on the fifteenth. February is the only month in Canada without a statutory holiday, and it is the month that, without question, needs one the most. It is unfathomable that this basic human right has been overlooked to this late date.

They wanted to make Valentine's Day the stat, but there was too much opposition from the singletons: that ever-more-powerful-growing consumer group, so after consulting with me, the government has decided to implement my idea of National Chocolate Day on February fifteenth. That way all the Valentine's Day aficionados can piggy-back onto it, and the singles are also assuaged. Every Canadian knows we need a holiday in February, and the fifteenth is a nice round number, halfway through the month.

Chocolate, in all its forms, is the focus of the celebration.

For three evenings before the fifteenth there will be a special Chocolate Market where people can buy fabulous creations- works of art, really, all made with the finest grade of chocolate, from white to dark, syrup to mocha lattes, hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows, cake, pastry, pie, crepes, every imaginable cookie that has, or can be modified to have chocolate, all these will be available, and more. There are no limits to the creative pursuit of new and exotic chocolate products for Chocolate Day.

There will also be a special two-day Chocolate Market exactly one month before Chocolate Day, so that people can buy gifts to mail to loved ones. Chocolate themed cakes that can withstand shipping, stationary and novelty gifts of every description will be available, and each year new designs of chocolate decorative lights and scented candles will come on the market, because in Canada, February is still pretty dark.

On the fifteenth, all the stores close, and people do nothing but eat chocolate, and talk about chocolate and the great meaning it has in their lives, how it has helped them to transform spiritually, and supported them to happier, more prosperous lives. The children play games on boards made of chocolate, with chocolate dice that you eat after rolling. (Each game comes with a hundred sets of chocolate dice.) At the end of the game, the winner breaks it all into pieces and shares it with all her playmates equally.

And speaking of playmates, lovers of all descriptions have full license to use chocolate in any and all of its forms for pleasure, fun, romance and full on hot blooded you-know-what. There are special restricted rooms at the Chocolate Markets to cater to this lucrative clientèle.

Dinner is a big part of National Chocolate Day. Everyone needs some real food by at least lunch-time, so the mid-day meal is the main one of the day. Chicken Mole is traditionally served, and salad with a cocoa vinaigrette. Chocolate-chili sprinkles add sweetness and heat to the vegetables and potatoes or rice. For dessert, the traditional choice is chocolate fondue, but it is currently beginning to be challenged by another favorite, chocolate cream pie.

At night everyone goes to sleep with a little piece of chocolate under their pillow, to sweeten their dreams and inspire sensuality during the still-long winter season. In the morning they bury the dream chocolate under the snow, where in a few weeks, crocuses will begin to bloom.

Writing in San Miguel

I remember this room in San Miguel; I was here before, wasn't I? Surrounded by this unbelievable mural: ceiling-high, terracotta skin, curved into hundreds of indigenous bodies, arms, strong backs and faces, praying hands, white eyes, white toenails. There is too much to see; it is like sitting inside a fire. But then we were writing, too, when I was here before, weren't we? Sitting in chairs facing forward like an audience watching a play, but instead, we all had notebooks and pens, all silently writing, soft brush of hand over page, a sniffle, a profound sigh, voices carrying through the window from the cafe next door.

Yes, I remember. It was the end of April, 2006, and I was getting ready to leave San Miguel, for the first time. I remember sitting with the writer's group, in the Quetzal Room at the Biblioteca, and tears rising in my eyes as I thought of how much I had learned during my time in this city: how to walk with an open heart, how to smile in the morning, how to see beauty, how to love more people, and then to love even more people than that.

Yes, that is a good memory, the one of writing in the Biblioteca, in the time and the place where I became a writer, to myself, and to the world. That memory is different from the second time I came to San Miguel, to heal my broken heart, and writing, or the third time I came with my new lover, and writing, or the fourth time I came to get my friend sober, and writing, or the fifth time I came, after my mother died, and writing, or the last time I came and stayed, and stayed, still, still writing.

"They'll have to carry me out of here in a box," I declare, and someday they will, and I'll still be writing even then, I imagine, because stories never end, and ways of telling them are infinite. When my body has become earth, and I live in the stars, remember me here, the first time, writing, here in the Biblioteca, in San Miguel, here with my tribe, in this room of fire, each of us writing, and writing, and writing, and writing, and writing, and writing and...

God Says Yes to Me

I asked God if it was okay to Ay-Ay-Ay,
And She said yes.
I asked her if it was okay to
Ay-Ay-Ay with You-Know-Who,
And She said Sure honey, he's hot.
I said, God, what if bad things happen?
I'm afraid.
And she said, sweet potato, everyone's afraid.
I said, Oh.
But God?
Yes, precious?
I'm not sure.
And She said, nobody's sure,
but you just go ahead anyway.
And I'll be right here watching,
so you make it good,
and come back and tell me all about it afterward.
And I said Yes, OK God,
Yes, yes, yes.
And I did Ay-Ay-Ay
with You-Know-Who,
and Ay-Ay-Ay was yes, yes, yes,
was good.


(After God Says Yes to Me by Kaylin Haught)

Fruit

I am fruit.
I am Carmen Miranda's hat.
I am Chiquita Banana and I'm back to say,
I am two scoops of raisins in a package of
Kelloggs Raisin Bran.
I am the ruby apple Eve offered Adam,
sweet, tender-crisp, full of juice,
perfectly ripe and
undeniable.
I am raspberry pie, peach yogurt,
banana bread and lime ice.
I am worth the effort,
I am worth the risk.
Green and hard, I give you a bellyache;
liquid and fermented, I give you a headache.
I am sunlight, mud and rain made edible,
I am flowers made full,
I am compost feeding the ground.
A brown, woody stem
connects me to the tree of life.
I fit completely
inside my perfect, blemished skin.
I am the pomegranate Cleopatra shared with Ceasar,
the plum she shared with Antony.
I am nine months pregnant,
I am secret seeds,
I am sufficient.
Take me.

Plans

I need to go home before I can come back; I just realized this: I need to go home before I can see the details of what I want to create next winter. Maybe cold and ice and salty slush staining suede boots is what I will find I need . And then again, maybe it's not. Maybe when Thanksgiving snow flurries shiver down inside the collar of my jacket, slice down the back of my neck, I will fly like clever robins to the sun, to the Monarch Butterfly wintering grounds, back to mysterious, warm Mexico. Maybe I will become fluent in Spanish. Maybe I will make trinkets to sell for rice and beans, do massage to pay rent on my tiny, perfect casita. I could become extremely homesick. But one thing I know is that before I can come back, I need to go home and complete what I've already planned of this oddysey I have begun: summer at the cottage with the lake and the loons, with Mum and Dad, with monsters in the woods at night, barely-there voices singing somewhere in the distance by the midnight outhouse, rocks painted white like ghosts marking the path to the cabin and a long, fat milk snake slowly sliding into the dry, rustling brush. When the nights get too cold, and the lake starts to show slivers of ice at the muddy shore, then I will probably know. Then I will be well on my way. But first, next, what I know now is, that I am heading for home.

Seventeen Years

“Higher, higher,” he screeches. He knows so few words, but this is one he knows well. We are at the park, and my son is on the swings, begging me for a bigger thrill.

“Is this all life is,” I find myself asking, not for the first time, but for the first time that day. I had woken up happy this morning, with my baby's face close to mine, perfect, long, curled, dark eyelashes framing perfect, innocent, wide, blue, baby eyes, inches from my own.

“Goo moo-in, Maa.” Then he smiled his heart-breaking smile and kissed my cheek softly. These are the moments I savour. But now, by ten thirty in the morning, I am frustrated and grumpy. It is cold in the park. The trees are bare, and there are thin wafers of ice at the edges of puddles. We are alone. Most mothers go to the bigger playgrounds, but I prefer this small, forgotten play-park on the edge of town. This is where I come with my seventeen-year-old baby. Nobody understands us anywhere else. Only here are we free from pity and scorn.

“Higher, higher, push, push,” shouts my baby with unbridled glee. I wish I had his joy.

I Am From

I am from Canada
land of the free!
red and white maple leafs,
beavers and vouyageurs!

I am from the land
of the Hudson Bay Company,
blankets and muskets,
Canoe paddles and fur.

I am from a river city,
millstones and floods,
white skin and faces.

I am from the Old Country,
from beets and potatoes and pork,
from the cross and the virgin, the
priest and the blessing.

I am also from England,
from stiff upper lip
and meat and potatoes.

I am from sweep it under the carpet,
shut the closet door, turn out the light.

I am from Saturday hot dogs
and potato chips,
Kraft dinner with weiners,
and chicken noodle soup.

I am from my Baba's hand sewn clothes,
new blouses and skirts every Sunday,
and from two times Christmas and New Years and Easter.

I am from the monster under the bed,
squirrels on the roof,
the branches of the back yard tree,
the back lane, and in the distance,
a red, neon, flashing “W”.

The Desert Road

I am on the road to Mecca. I hear the shuffle of sandals on the dirt track. It is still cool, still morning. I see the robes of my companions- hems dragging in dust, and hoods now thrown back to catch the sun's thin warmth. I imagine the curves of the womens' bodies as the hems of their robes sway gently with each step, and jewellry clinks softly in rythym. I see the long red scratch on my arm from my husband's advance- now dressed with a moist salve. I pray to Allah to be released from my suffering. Last night I remember the flames of our small cooking fire, and how the shadows looked like snakes. I remember the old rag used to handle the hot cooking vessels, tossed to the side, lifeless and crumpled, and how I thought it hid a mystery- a small animal or a sacred object. Then, when we'd eaten, some shadow of a servant scooped up the crumpled rag and flapped it twice, folded it and tucked it neatly away. With that, my magic disappeared. “Silly woman,” I chided myself.

Now I feel the heat of the morning rising. Waves of light distort the distant hills toward which we slowly move. The air seems to shimmer. I look at the hem of the robe of the woman walking in front of me: my huband's first wife. “Better to be fourth wife, or fifth wife than second wife,” I said to myself for the millionth time, “Second wife is shame; not good enough to be first wife, not good enough to be last wife. Second wife is nothing- just slave, just servant, just old.” Still, I am fed. I have food in my belly and a robe to wear. I must remember to be grateful for Allah's gifts.

The dirt track leads forward. All around me the earth seems now to boil like waves of water at a rocky shore. I can almost see fronds of green seaweed waving in the surf, if I soften my gaze and remember the colour of the amulet my mother wore at her heart. Sea green, she told me, was the colour. Sea green heals the heart and keeps it strong, she taught me. But I do not have that amulet; it went to my younger sister. I have no magic amulet to help my heart stay strong. I often feel it fluttering. Someday it will fail me.