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      August 23, 2012Lianne SpidelAmbassador Bridge

      Sometimes, when I was her child, we took
      the tunnel underneath the river,
      or better, from the high arch of the bridge

      she pointed out to me two countries.
      Either way she’d stashed a pound of butter
      beneath the seat or something small

      in Royal Doulton in her girdle, tilting
      her chin at the customs man,
      calling him Officer, cheeky as hell.

      Now she grows slight within my arms,
      asking, “What day is this? Am I
      in Florida? When am I going home?”

      and to the puzzled salesman at the door,
      “No, we don’t live here. We’re Canadians
      down for the winter.” It is May.

      The grocery money hidden in her pillow slip
      or under the rug, she plans escape,
      packing her suitcase, then forgetting why.

      Somehow the tunnel has reclaimed her,
      muffling her voice like whispery echoes
      of tires in that deep cylinder

      where we dare not sound the horn
      for fear collapse would seal us helpless
      as water climbed the windows of our car.

      If I could find our way back to the bridge,
      geography and time might then come clear
      and she could show me here and there,

      then and now, while two flags thud
      against the sky, and on the river far below
      small boats skip and wobble in the sun.

      from #36 - Winter 2011