Back in British Columbia, daughter was
Closing in on a year of Sundays since birth,
Doing so in a cabin by the lake. I was gone,
On the road, across the country, a farcical
Company of pronouns, with no idea of where
In hell was home, beyond what small hope
Daughter anchored. Where I was, who knew
What language first to speak? Bad French
Or vulgar American English? Stumble badly
Or natter on rudely? You would know, I
Think, if only you weren't a hope they long
Ago schooled me to imagine my own. Mercy.
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