Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

November 08, 2008


We sometimes
ate breakfast for dinner.
We broke fulvous yolks
against puddled beans,
subsumed salty Marmite
with swallows of tea
that my mother had brewed
in an effort to understand
my father—English
by birth and letter;
but long as Canadian
as any of us.

In truth, he had no such
hunger. He'd run away
from home as a boy,
before love of food
could catch up with him,
as his mother had run
from England before him.
Instead, he craved open
space, consoled himself
on sugar sandwiches
and rye—recipes he
would later deny.

To this day, I'm prone
to Scotch and reading
menus carefully. Then,
when the waitress arrives,
I order something other
than what I thought I wanted.

Posted by Delire at November 8, 2008 05:26 AM