Two poems
BY Suzanne Robertson
Flying
I look around at the passengers, a mixture of folks and lawyers
all heading to Winnipeg on a Wednesday night. A young girl
offers me the seat beside her, palms open, fluttering. Language
left back on earth.
We are all immigrants this close to heaven.
Evening arrives through the window. The woman ahead of
me doesn’t look up from her crossword, doesn’t notice the
sun setting fire to her brown hair. Aisles are lined with leather
shoes, old sneakers, exposed ankles and briefcases. This is all I
know of the other passengers: some have nervous feet that pace
like animals beneath their seats, some order drinks with loud,
inflated voices, some face the wall and cry into dinner napkins.
Now the young girl’s head drops. Her body moves like a
marionette, stringed to the machinery of sleep. Eyes halfclosed,
dreaming, not dreaming. Then she bends to find her
detachable hood, places her face inside and finds night.
We are all going to Winnipeg.
We might love each other, had we ever met.
To the Point
To the man who listened to the sun as if it were an orator
along the path to freedom
To the long saga of his beard that began
in the Middle East
To the open door of the lake
To the sailboats moving like brides towards the altar of blue
To the rollerblader who wants to party like it’s 1969
To the trees practising tai chi
in the wind
To the constellations of black flies
To the sea gulls in Salvation Army suits above the Gardiner
To their mental cries
To the tigers growling beneath the hoods of cars
To the dogs jonesin’ at the ends of leashes
To the woman who was afraid to take me by the hand
To the men who were breathing at our backs
To the sky that did not let down its fire
escape
To the city that keeps us from touching
each other
To the point
where it crumbles
To the rocks that appear kinder
than most
To their hospitality hosting
the view
To the geese walking like grandparents
along the beach
To the boy who took out his chopsticks and serenaded the night
on a xylophone of stars
