Love au Quebec

n’a jamais été

un simple proposition

supposition

condition

or position.

 

Amour in Quebec

A toujours été

bipartisan,

bicultural,

bicameral,

bipolar,

bilateral,

and a bilingual

Plaine d’Abraham.

 

Oh mon amour

I try hard to be

part of your futur anterieur

while you struggle with my participe passé

but it has always been imparfait

and we never get past the conditional.

 

Oh love

I mispronounce my intentions.

I try to French you in English

to tongue your impossibly beautiful

vowels and consonants

but more often than not get lost

in your multitudes of exceptions

and sultry syntax.

 

Mon amour

Comme preuve de mon love toujours

I portage your saint crazy labyrinths

seek your passage Nord-Ouest,

your east and west ends

but your morphed street names

only land me in your cul‑de‑sacs.

 

And in my colonial zeal

day and night have lustful thoughts

about your splendid seigneuries,

rich furs and syrop dérable succulant.

 

Oh love

I try to love your missionary ways;

your complex des martyr

that tie us to crosses and bed posts.

 

On my knees, I scale those Oratory steps

to ask for the miracle of our union

only to find myself in a room full of crutches,

wheel chairs, en solitude and heartless.

 

Oh mon amour

Comme un maple leaf Romeo

I place you on a pedestal,

I kneel beneath your fleur-de-lys draped balcony;

at the foot of your sensual spiral staircases

so that I might look up your joie de vivre

but your je ne sais pas quoi

always eludes me.

 

Oh mon amour

Yes, Oui, I confess in every corner church,

beneath the mountain’s cross

and in Westmount’s only dépanneur

that I never take you to your fêtes nationale

or play your spoons.

 

But je me souviens

you never ask me to dance

under the full clair de la lune

on Canada Day.

 

Oh mon amour

I watch my Ps and Qs

and when younger and more brave

j’ai voté pour ton independence

That should count for something.

 

Oh love

I call you on my Allophone;

J’écoute  to your beep sonore

and get tongue tied in both official languages.

 

Oh mon amour

I know I am not easy to live with.

I, too, am set in my ways and traditions

which you see as plat comme roast beef

And sensible shoes.

 

And I know that my commitment

is filled with words like “perhaps” “peut être

and “royal commissions”.

 

Oh love

I know that you and I mean different things

when we say “phoque”,

“Québec”, “Kweebek”,

“Canada”, “Oui” and “No”.

 

And yet when I’m far away:

in Cornwall, Moose Jaw or Victoria,

I feel comme un  étranger and passionately

defend your passionate positions.

 

Un bec, deux becs

Love in Québec

is a two cheek affair in chic cafés

of croissants and cappuccinos,

and smoke‑blue Gauloise air.

And we are always parting,

and always leaving behind crumbs,

full ashtrays and bitter aftertastes.

 

Oh love

for you j’ai abondonné mes apostrophe,

subscribe to Le Devoir and Allo Police

and enrol my future in immersion classes.

 

Oh mon mour

I wear my heart on your hockey sweaters.

I bring you bouquets of Ken Drydens and Larry Robinsons

but you only want Rockets and Lafleurs.

 

I place my heart in your armoire

so in the morning you may see

amidst your cashmeres and pure laines

that I do love you after my own fashion.

 

Oh love

Let me say in my imperfect joual

that when you say “je t’aime”

candles glow more sensual

Beaujolaies deviens plus aromatiques

and even poutine becomes edible.

 

When you say “je t’aime”

Chibougamou gets warmer

and I feel shivers up my Baie Como.

When you say “je t’aime”

ice storms become romantic

and even the electricity gets turned on.

 

Oh love

Say “oui, je t’aime”

and I will say “yes, I love you”

on deviendrait le verbe “aimer”

and we will conjugate our way into heaven

et on parlerait l’autre language.

 

Love/l’amour,

It’s as simple as that.

C’est tout

That’s it

That’s all.