Summer Solstice 2006

 

There is a gathering of spirits

in a garden in Griffintown

among the rusted candelabras of the imagination,

the Aztec stairs that are altars for tropical plants,

the blossoming cheek-pink rose bushes in the corner

and the sweet smell of horseshit wafting

from the Montreal Horse Palace next door.

 

The treasures and the knick-knacks

which were the same in her palm,   

she, who gathered us on solstice past

in celebration of sacred dragons, profane goddesses

and comet wine in bawdy poems and earthy songs

and now too soon gone,

are laid upon the moon-round white table

for all to see beneath the darkening shortest night.

 

In candle light, after her eagle, turkey and pigeon feathers

are strung and hung from the branches, clothesline,

and go-go girl cages until next Halloween

when the souls of the dead rise again,

rattles, baby teeth, plastercine creatures

and the ABC of witches’ names and Aladdin’s lamp upon which

we dare not wish and the last fortune cookie’s unlistened to advice

“stop searching forever, happiness is just next to you”

is now her heirlooms to choose from.

 

The spirits high and fed on sacrificial lamb chops, humus

and good beer, accompanied by her guide and guitars, sing  

songs for weeping and laughter, recite poems of freedom

and songs that float on the sweet smell of horseshit

over the fences, down the streets and into the dreams of

sleepers in Griffintown who will wake tomorrow

and for a moment wonder why their eyes are open wider,

why their hearts beat like laughter,

why their steps seem lighter as they set off to work,

and why their hard day seems just a bit shorter.