Because you were mine
too, once
Now, when I think of you, I think of how someday
your mother will die and I’ll travel to wherever
you've all ended up to attend the funeral
because she was my mother too, once. Your wife,
in her appropriate black dress, high-necked,
will offer me a place to sleep at your house
because she doesn't understand what we
are, and that you'll sneak out of your room
in the middle of the night to make love to me
on the white Danish couch you bought with her.
Because your mother died. And it's my comfort you need
right now. And I'll feel sorry for her, alone
cold in your bed but not for long because I had you
first, and I think that counts for more than having you
this second.
Molly Cross-Blanchard is a Métis
writer from the prairies currently living, working, and attending school (UBC
Creative Writing MFA) as a guest on unceded Musqueam territory. Her poems have
appeared in CV2, The Malahat Review, and In/Words. This Spring, Molly will take
over the Executive Editor Circulation position at PRISM international, and will
publish her debut chapbook with Rahila’s Ghost Press. Find Molly on Twitter and
Instagram. She posts a ton of dog pics.
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