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.
