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Twenty-two (a sestina)

Having just turned twenty-two
and knowing as I do that age
can sometimes lead one to forget
I have decided to speak French
more. I owe it to Québec.
The leaves are turning golden brown

the way your eyes are sometimes brown.
When last I saw you, twenty-two
seemed far away. Back in Québec,
I always feel that pilgrim age
of the year we left together. My French
was good then. How could I forget?

Certainly you could never forget
the mothertongue. The leaves are brown.
Les feuilles sont brunes, I say, my French
at third-grade level. Twenty-two
and falling. I hardly feel my age
or fingers upon my return to Québec.

It’s hard to see in a glance where Québec
ends and you begin. Forget
what you know about me. Height, age,
hair, blond on the head, brown
in other places. Twenty-two
years old. Vingt-deux ans in French.

An X on a treasure map, my French
is buried somewhere in Québec,
somewhere in you, and twenty-two
seems old enough to try to forget
your eyes, that perfect autumn brown,
and what they might look like with age.

If wit and wisdom come with age
then why can’t I let go of French
or you, your eyes, the colour brown
the flat rock surfaces of Québec
that seem to beg me to forget
my love of place? At twenty-two

the long brown hills of my Québec
have faded with age like the tonguings of French
I forget and recall, ancient at twenty-two.

(October 17, 2002)


© Katherine Maheux, 2003.