Hot Breath

Right on cue, the rain began. This was no small thing; drought had come already to Ontario and the East Coast, and while for us in Québec, in-between, a call hadn’t yet been made, it wouldn’t be long until we’d join the ranks of those on the precipice of dust bowl. Fire bans had of course already come into effect, preventive measures. In Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue, interdiction d’arrosage. For my sister in Nova Scotia, no more trail runs for the summer. On our shallow well, we held our breath, saved our bathwater for the roses, took our baths in the river, went pee outside.

Right on cue, too, for me personally, in addition to answering the prayers of the collective, the whole Haut-Saint-Laurent (and one hopes, far beyond). At ten o’clock this morning, just as Michael was pulling out of the drive with Lu, my mama, and Lu’s bestie to take them to Montréal: that’s when the first drops fell. I had been weeding the white garden, and went inside after kissing them good-bye, dropped my gloves and decided it was at last the right time to write. Had the rain not come, I’d have been tempted to finish what I’d started. How good of the rain to have coincided with this rare time alone, le moment propice for me to sit and write. There has been so little time, in this hot, sweet, horrific, full summer, for sitting and writing - things best done at my desk, undistracted, inside.

This summer 2025, this Year of the Bean (oh que si, c’est un grand succès!), it seems I’m turning inside out, sallying forth and extending myself outward. Living outside most of the time, of course, what with work at Les Jardins d’en Haut and in my own gardens, but I also mean that I’ve been blessed to go away to BC and visit dear family and friends; that I’ve been outgoing, hosting near-constantly at Maison BLUM and meeting new folks in the Valley, especially on the farm where many have come from far and wide to work alongside us as WWOOFers or stagiaires. Another sense of this opening to the outside: I’ve been sharing words in new spaces — a published piece in Paloma Magazine (here), an interview (here) on the subject of surveillance and the migrant crisis in La Presse, a love poem read at a wedding and a protest poem at a country potluck open mic.

One must bloom in spite of the hot breath of the world, in response to the bluster of fascists, the droughts and the fires, the floods and all the horrors and sadness that one must resist!

In addition to writing, I believe deeply in the power of two other -ings when it comes to our necessary resistance: gardening and gathering. If you’re in the Montréal area, I invite you to come and be a part of these at a special event, the third annual Cabaret Clandestin aux Jardins d’en Haut. Link here.

Together, we are widening our circles of care and connection, weaving community in response to so many current reasons for concern.

And with that, and for now, here’s my most recent poem, “Hot Breath.”

In the same summer as the horrors, in the same hot breath,

we speak of the garden and the genocide, the floods and the fires,

the fun that we’re having,

the dove in the nest.

It’s like how dreams and nightmares sit side by side,

enemies in juxtaposition,

palimpsests of the same story: now bucolic, now comedic, now tragic.

And before bed, a wee dram to quiet the drama,

help you drift off, unmoor yourself from your phone.

But the sun rises a hazy hot pink

and the hummingbirds and the damselflies are no match for the helicopters,

and a new fascism advances as sure and as fast as the glaciers recede.

So we seize these dog days,

leash them like the coyotes who howl at the full moons in the back fields

that are sometimes scoured by officers searching for those who have not had our luck,

who can only dream of beach days and barbecues, cold beer and bonfires,

whose wont it is to remain in the shadows,

emerging only when it is safe to start the Sisyphean climb

of white mountains of paperwork and prejudice.

In the same summer as the horrors, there are wonders,

and in the same hot breath,

we hope and we believe and we resist and we protest -

and here is how we do it:

in the same summer, under the same sun, the same moon, the same stars,

we gather in the garden and we speak and sing and play and write

in the same summer as the horrors, in the same hot breath.