New snow

Mother’s high heeled boots track

a path to nowhere.

 

                        In the coffin

she looks betrayed, as if caught

doing something she is ashamed of.

 

                        *

                                   

Winter in Montreal, so cold

your nostrils stick together

            on those long walks after storms.

 

Once Michael, lost in his own good looks

rang my doorbell to celebrate

            the first snow.  I think now

 

it was only some romantic

version of himself that led him to my front door

            a snowflake riding his lash.

 

                        *

 

Years later he showed up after Father’s funeral,

            wearing knee high boots, smoking non- stop

declaring cancer scare a farce.

 

Back from the cemetery, where an old woman stood in the cold

            palm out asking

 something for the living?

 

We sat on low wooden chairs in the living room

            where for years, my father slept, and drank himself

as far as he could get from my mother’s death.

 

So strange to be in that room, his paintings

            on the wall, brilliant and brooding,

brushstrokes as intimate as breath.