by Alice Bergeron

It just stands there
Waiting
A copy of its old self
In no hurry
Brain dimmed          no scurrying
So onlookers will disappear
         il n’y a rien à voir ici

My mother’s tongue lashes out at me
I earned my stripes
Then shed them away
And now I just stand there
Looking through the keyhole in the grass
         fermés ses yeux me regardent

The ground has a nice nicotine hue

 

[Alice Bergeron is a Master’s student at the Université du Québec à Rimouski. Her first collection of poetry, Désordinaires (2014), was followed by some publications here and there. She writes in both English and French, working odd jobs while pursuing her explorations in poetry, performance art, physical theater and dance.]

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