sharing a drink


Last night in my dream we visited
over a light snack-supper of smoked salmon.
It was in revision in snooze that I conjured it:
capers, lemon slices, you had a book, titled: MYTHS.

In my dream, you had sent me texts.
No words just photographs and images.
Of notable figures in statues of persons
that I had no idea in my city existed.

Why in my dream were you in my City?
Was it that Si is in Montreal; close proximity?
Later in my dream I wondered if that was it-could be?
Or was it I had watched a movie about a scary man: Ryan Gosling?

When I woke up I was filled with that feeling.
I had shelved it. Still think of you daily.
It was a warmth and substance up chest and down belly.
It was fullness. It was my care for you. It was my friendship: loving.

And I made my toast and my strawberries.
And I heated the water for tea, started crying.
What patterns my parents have forced upon me
to so sickly pine for someone, who like them, does not want me!

I have not made love since you in 2013.
How could any man’s frequency compete?
“For starters, he’ll be way fucking nicer!!” she screams.
“Yeah, he won’t be a dick one day, then on the next.”

But this is my family: on/off. Loving. Then not. Then gone.
Blasted by Dad at 4 for chocolate cookie fingers in his car.
Mom’s photo plastered on box in basement: gun range for Dad’s pellet gun shoot-outs.
Mom rejecting/ignoring me for my migraine, and that I’m incapacitated to help her out at her cottage.

And when True Love came in ‘93, I was scared of it.
Felt so unworthy, low self-esteem, unappreciative.
His mother thought me way too wild for her precious.
His Dad said the mother ought to loosen the reins a bit.

At 43, I am practical and logical:
Love is a mere circumstance of demographics.
And I care nothing for divorced dads in suburban ruts.
I’ve always been into men who fought for space in the London underground.

So thank you for the silent supper last night.
In waking up: I felt your presence, alright.
To have hope, I will – as I do – lock the emotion down tight.
And say you are just protection for what is not in sight.

© Sylvie Hill, 2017