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if we make it to summer

by Ariane Scott


montréal calls each spring, comes in rain and
whips my hair, straits my spine but I can’t move,
I can’t leave oh
I can’t sleep.


my neighbor is stoned, he says
there’s something about this rain, he says
there’s something in the rain warm falling
soft I could tell him how I want to soak,
whisper how I need to drench you fall
roll wet each drop to steep our skin.

but I don’t.


I’m shivering again.


when I squint my eyes just right
I can vanish inside this rain with you,
what do you say, let’s call it an ocean
and sink.

I could be a ghost in that place,
wrap you inside,
hand-plunge your flesh through
your chest exit back and like this
we could merge.


once, in a small laurentian ville
I saw a guitar sustain a man.
rain fell hard but he defended his crutch
beneath an umbrella he stood exposed
openwide to the storm, melted
away, wetted the pavement with flesh
his music kept seche and I asked him,
I said, pleurez-vous?
he answered, yes.

such comfort in the split
between translation.


the way you understand, the way
your comfort sways me bare.


buried in the rain:
images of distant place, sunroom and sea.
massive wooden medieval doors, cobblestone.
and you, you non-façade non-mirage.
you loom in front.


will this rain permit fire?
in spring I must burn things,
convention, maps, tongues.
light the north with me fire the east,
it all means nothing except
what it does, but it’s all
so muddled.


if we make it to summer I’ll rock
you to sleep, I’ll rain you and burn you
and breathe you. when we get to june
we’ll be someplace good someplace



Author's Note: 2005

Posted on 06/04/2012
Copyright © 2021 Ariane Scott

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 07/10/12 at 06:42 PM

What can I say, I love Montreal also. So much so and I missed the snow so much I flew up there for a week between Xmas and New Years. Rented a car and drove up in the Laurentian mts to watch people ski. Loved the whole week and the Russian restaurants.

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