POEM A DAY – February 18

Two Nights in Ottawa

1.
I went alone to an old film theatre.
It was on a slight hill, marquis shining
like a goddess. I can’t remember what
film I watched, but I remember feeling
the post-movie joyful bloat in my belly:
popcorn, soda, sugar zinging in waves,
the knowing of loving art deeply. I had
to walk back to my sister’s apartment.
I confidently walked and walked. And
walked, and the sun dropped along the
horizon: a frown. I walked and walked
and that buzz in my belly turned to rolling
stone. Wrong way. I was walking the
wrong way. No cell phone. No cash
for a cab. I stopped. Turned. Walked
and walked and walked. Past the
theatre again. It was closed. White
screens surrendering to darkness.
Me too. I made it back. After hours
and hours. I made it back.

2.
We walked beneath trees enchanted
with thick, dazzling ice. The rain storm
in January had raged on the city like
a toddler in a tantrum. Then froze. The
power was out. Shadows deepened
the cold. We had to get to my friend’s
brother’s place. To warmth. To a dirty sofa.
To sleep. But the journey was long. I was
underdressed. We all were. Cautious steps
on unsalted sidewalks stole our voices.
We had to concentrate on staying vertical.
The whole time, I was thinking: where are
we going? Please, let us be near. Please,
bones, don’t shatter. Please, mouth, warm
enough to french kiss the boy beside me.