Skip to content

At metro Joliette with my jolicoeur,

we walked to the depanneur,

discussed dasein while buying

a Perrier and a block of beurre.

Outside, minus twenty-three,

with windchill it's real fuckery,

your back pockets warm my fingertips,

your cherry ChapStick so summery.

Take me to the everglades,

a place where flowers never fade,

but pans inside your basement wait

to fry us scrambled eggs, real buttery.

Blue sunrise on my palms, a peignoir,

a neighbour grows peonies in a baignoire,

I dreamt a homeless peintre

revealed Hochelag in a Renoir

Make love inside these old maisons

until condos sail across the St-Laurent,

The vieux-accent is extinct,

And the cordonier’s window plein noir.

Morning flurries, très légère,

someone’s shovel scrapes fragile air,

a chasse-neige is herding cloud,

The hunched man salts his spiral stairs.

Joliette

Yusuf Saadi


More from
Poem of the Week

Ann Lauterbach

Count

Mira Rosenthal

Metamorphoses

translated from the Polish written by
Tomasz Różycki