rations

o M,

vancouver. my mother and I eat italian food. I show her marching man. sometime after antipasto. before risotto.

black and white. Bosnia. you warming up before parade. she doesn’t need to see. your photo. she sees you in. skin. eyes. bright. she hears you. my voice. full.  

your txt. last night. I was offered Naden. four years ago. but I know this already. your wife. didn’t want to go. and anyway if you had come. we wouldn’t have met would we?

why I miss you in vancouver more than anywhere else? our time there, so cold I thought it done.  o M…

anyway, J. came by yesterday. brought me rations. thought it would make me laugh. No. 4  U.S. army tuna dinner. (he says the americans have better grub than us.) add water and sand and shit and 20 smelly men. Afghanistan. I cooked him dinner. your favourite. rolled sushi (and I don’t even like the damned things—too cold too tidy). it took me hours. drank too much saki. he left at 3 a.m.

I caught the ferry across the strait. the winds high. I could hardly stand. felt last night’s wine pound. wanted to see my mother. her best friend. dying. I came to say goodbye. to the woman who had been at my mother’s side for 36 years.

now I sit. drink espresso. black medicine. and write to you. tell you how much I miss you (again) and M., your love. sometimes like rations. dry, scarce. yet it sustains.

 S