By Holly Stark

Where is here?

Ice shatters into loss.

A tumult of discordant sounds,

hockey game spirals on.

Puck flies overhead,

disrupting Atwood at her desk,

surfacing from work.

Poems, stories,

meant to be heard.

A tin flute whistling

forces her to procrastinate.

Roy’s Florentine is silent

struggling behind

tills in Saint Henri

– slums of Montreal.

In Ontario

money is heard,

a bell rings in Natas,

Robertson Davies pays

with a toonie,

he travels light;

stripping off lendings

of other nations.

Leaning to undo his boots,

he trips over Cohen

who falls, kicking up

some fertile muck,

and lands in Landsdowne.

Here, a mother and her son

set off for their journey

to the border office

between Coutts, Alberta,

and Sweetgrass, Montana.

King waves them off,

but thirsty he heads inside

to Mcthirstys,

to discover the Leafs

just won the game.

Over in the Rockies,

the white judges haunt Dumont,

she turns inside to look

for something other.

Everyone seems to have done the same.

Here. Here is where the cold

and warm are both a welcome.

Where America returns

it’s hat back to Canada.