April is ugly in April in Edmonton
but swans ripple high overhead
and we lift up our eyes to their arrows
as if we believe in warm wind
it is grit brown and slouched
but the crouching sun gains day by day
and we track it home over the river
as if we believe in those rumours
we could be lotus eaters unfolded
in leaf and green and soft caress
so at the slightest of provocation
on slimmest of evidence, we bare
our throats to frostbitten air
as if we believe in clemency
we mutter and chant spring’s litanies
as if we believe in the light.
There are sidewalks that front 97th Street
where windows of Remand look down
on the chalk, prey to wind, spit and gravel scour
love letters sprawled on the ground
these are witness of history, wages
of poverty, ill-spelled portrayals of faith
that the sentence is finite, and less in importance
than love that abides under pain
we could be lotus eaters unfolded
in leaf and green and soft caress
so, at the hint of reconciliation
slenderest offers of equality, we bare
our throats
as if we believe.
In remembrance of the missing and murdered.
Prairiepomes 