First Nation's TORONTO
Place of meetings
First Summer's mania. Humid and full.
Hot air pushing through the bloated corridors
Of our First World/ New World apartment building. High rise melting pot of global soul emergencies.
Neighbor's quick courtesies. 25 mother tounges. Indescribable colour.
Something like a love rush (post a British colonial purge)
Back from the days of War On The Horizon
And mother stuck in: “Everything has got to be OK now!” with
“Were it not for these winters and this damned English language!”
Week old curried elevator rides bring us her dollar a day patrons.
Our rooms filled with their freshly soiled children.
Her frantic need to save them.
Obsessive holding that halved me body and soul.
Pinning the bizarre relief of her neglect
Across a section of conqueror's culture
Recieving the difference as a wedge.
On and into the tales that throated a constant cackling.
Sweetly stained wording. Perfumed. Hidden contracts burgeoning.
Air Canada 1968. Refugee immigrant status.
Arrive to snow and pale pink skies.
Leave the spices, tagine and carpets behind.
Desert wind, pomegranate reds and spiced heat.
Men bent over in prayer...wailing their praises five times a day.