Vancouver Writing: Evelyn Lau
HOW IT BEGAN
DEAR DOCTOR
In dreams, it takes all night to reach you—
blind driving down unfamiliar roads,
twisty mountain passes, suburban cul-de-sacs
not on any map. Then at last,
the mirrors in the green stairwell.
The mirrors so close to the entrance
I could have walked straight into myself.
For years this was the shape of the world.
The plain room and its myriad dimensions,
radiating outward like meaning
from the bound lines of a poem—
the meaning in the space, the breath.
The silence. Clouds of curry rising
from the Indian restaurant below,
the shuffle of mail through your meaty hands,
the worn patch on the seat of the leather armchair,
duct-taped together. Last night I dreamt
I rode a boat through choppy water to see you.
You lived on a high cliff above wintry seas.
It was a paradise of pastoral beauty,
drenched in the syrupy light of summer.
Cottages with paned windows,
gardens overgrown with roses, wildflowers.
Bees bumbling through brambles,
furry as tiny bears, freighted with honey.
Butterflies like lofted petals
tearing through the sappy air.
How I longed to live there too!
Only the ocean lay between us.
- Evelyn Lau: as published in Geist
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