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.
