Exploring the heavens west of Décarie

Quinn McIlhone

You’re strutting your stuff

the first few weeks,

the world at arm’s length,

new man at beck and call. I can’t believe

I have such a stunner

for a girlfriend. Everything

you do looks posed for effect,

but it’s just you being you.

Sometimes I can’t resist

and try to corral you,

but as a west-end girl

who has her standards

you insist on the bedroom.

You get to dictate,

and know it,

and the sense of limits

enhances my delight.

Life moves indoors in winter

and on weekdays I travel

to N.D.G. on the bus pass

you bought for me.

You’re a worker, I’m broke,

so we are circumscribed

by time and money, spending

most nights on the couch

watching television.

You lower the lights

for atmosphere

and cuddle up against me,

but again the mores

are inflexible.

We’re free to express love

but may not indulge

in physical affection

until the show is over.

The notion of coupling

on the couch is unthinkable,

but we sit contentedly

holding each other for hours,

chaste kisses permitted

under house rules.

I bring premium barres

de chocolat and feed them

to you by the square,

savouring the perfume

of your hair and body.

Silver aura enhanced

like the moon on a clear night,

you’re as close as one gets

to heaven on this earth.