My Dinosaur
Franois Turcot translated by Ern Moure BookThug 2016 FIRST ENGLISH EDITION PUBLISHED ORIGINALLY UNDER THE TITLE:
MON DINOSAURE LA PEUPLADE AND FRANOIS TURCOT, 2013 ENGLISH TRANSLATION AND AFTERWORD 2016 BY ERN MOURE COVER IMAGE DIANE CHISHOLM ALL RIGHTS RESERVED No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The production of this book was made possible through the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. BookThug also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing, an initiative of the
Roadmap for Canadas Official Languages2013-2018: Education, Immigraption, Communities , for our translation activities.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION Turcot, Franois, 1977 [
Mon dinosaure. English]
My dinosaur / Franois Turcot ; Ern Moure, translator.
First English edition. Translation of: Mon dinosaure. Poems. Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN 978-1-77166-230-7 (PAPERBACK).ISBN 978-1-77166-231-4 (HTML). ISBN 978-1-77166-232-1 (PDF).ISBN 978-1-77166-233-8 (MOBI) I.
Mour, Erin, 1955 , translator II. Title. III. Title: Mon dinosaure. English. PS8639.U66M6613 2016 C841.6 C2016-900585-2 C2016-900586-0 for my dinosaur of a Dad parked behind The Cinnamon Shops
Contents
Hold Tight, Let Go
That was my verdict, six weeks before the shades.January had burst December open.
I saidlet go, stockstill and concocting questions. Reminding myself a mans heart cant be bared with just one hand.Scinded, our words repeat. I heardhold tight, let go,standing like a man pitched forward. Weight on one leg.Killing winter in our kitchens, staring at icy roads, I saidlet go.Dialled his number. At his window in another city, a man answered.A voice rose up. Full, beleaguered, under a pale sun.
Six Weeks Before The Shades
today Id repeat
today January had burst me open, December
Tuesday fragile with populous men from out on my back- porch tell me now out there when the door shuts who will I reveal?
with my legs fused to the long trail Id go forward teeming a memory cracking my step
only my voice or a shovel snowed in could unfreeze me too many epochs rooted in my depths
whod knock on the door to send me packing yes
whos in the wrong dream? away from the usual snow seeking a lame answer Id never again
tonight the neighbour muffled in the wall would again deny the avalanche of her cries
cramped kitchen at sunset without spouses stuck Id be the cupboard no one opens again
everythings stoppeddont wantany of it threadbare his voice rough mixed with the lines of the sofa
taking the edge of my bed for the end of the world Id end up at last in the arms of Mary
yanked this far in a dream or by the hoover maybe Id escape in one sweep the future
tomorrow at dawn Id exist as hubcap in his eye Id exhaust a memory Id finally be able to say
dear you what a tale could be pulled out the neighbour in bare feet with one hand Id uncover her smile
doubled in the frame by mathematical proof between the parentheses of my cheeks even the aird pick up the pulse of his footstep
cold ramble like a first snow in the refuge of his hand there Id settle my rectitude
an hour later in the crypt of his belly Id nestle what renounces, caves in and still survives
after Id been told
that he ventilateehis heartthat he stillshis countervailing windsthat he tempers the instantof a seasonlet me be Id say back busted Id slip off to the kitchen mouth full of night
true geographies, numb journey sucked into the verbiage of decor tense as a plaster dog Id militate, silent
An hour from the moon Id filch through the glass insistent Id be that grain of salt
an iceberg on my head grey Id melt on the spot as if a lie of summer
lunar drinker crushing patience like a dormouse Id peel off exhaustion in the den of my name
in a mele at the round lamp like a duck in the shade Id cling to a fixed idea
in the evening of like a future ghost flattened deep in an eye of Id dig up the head of a long lineage of guffaws
fortune of shades modest bedroom under the peat of a dream in left field the neighbour wouldve stopped her shrieking
fielder on the warpath at the downslope of the stair well on the landing for the catch Id sweep past her gaze of marble
unfazed in old mules heart cheaped out darn right Id give her the cold shoulder
grim day in free- fall paying off my debts behind her three drawers would cupboard her face
as for us , shed say grudgingly
its not our to-do head poked into a nest of wasps both feet planted on a trestle
go figure Id tell her full of sky
dont get me mixed upin your foldsyour silence asmagnifier, go, git under the carpet a key would no longer glint with two twists Id seal up the neck of my door
eviscerated by evenings Id shut the silence between us at table Id decline the soup of Great Depressions
tumbling from my mouth like a torrent the future here could be totted up in rough butter
from clenched heart to well-rounded leg
what could hold me together,would I have enough veins?an image pared down body as frame whittled in wood hands bevelled by beliefs
would meet me in the night geodesic January the walk would be long Id go take my memory for a stroll in the pale sun
a century of fossils under the roof at the accounting tables Id scratch out my own thinking
its official something roasted in gusts would smudge the night brown until it slits open the eyelids
somewhere the run of years exorbitant a swell of memories would migrate across my face
foot crooked in a question parked flat on my back before turning off Id give death the slip they think