Beaubassin

Six nights in a fleatrap,

somewhere nearby 

Nowhere, Nova Scotia. 

You went out for candy bars

and clean shirts. I float

around the room, stuck 

through with feathers. 

On TV between basketball 

and Easter Mass in québécois, 

seven dark trees tremble

and glitch. 

Muzak over birdsong and

Brueghel clouds over seven

trees. And among the trees, 

birds. 

On the bureau, 

I shiver and perch, 

squawking for worms.

When you come back, 

we’ll wrap ourselves 

in clean linens, clasp talons,

taste the salted fog.

When you come home,

I’ll pick you clean 

of parasites.