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A Stay of Execution
Nothing else matters
when for months
you will sleep alone
in a double bed
abandoned skin shivering against cold sheets
listening to the weight of darkness
gasping loneliness into your lungs
Nothing else matters when happiness ends
in a few hours
and you throw yourself in each others arms
hooked on each other’s breath
as though you are trapped on a boat
on the verge of drowning
knowing you cannot swim
alone
Double Talk
She asks “how are you” and does not listen
when I answer “my dear old cat is dying”
she goes on and on about her dog
my poor cat long forgotten
merely a prologue to her endless monologue
and it doesn’t matter whether I am listening
as long as I punctuate her litany
with a few “oh-no-really?”
as long as I do not interrupt
to go back to my dying cat
and I wish I could switch her off
like an annoying fan
but nothing will stop this inferno of words
talking through me, above me, beyond me
and I realise I could have said anything when she asked “how are you”
I’ve just been diagnosed with cancer
my husband left me for a twenty years old girl
my house caught on fire
my dog perished in flames
I lost everything
I have been sleeping at the Salvation Army for the last two nights
my boss fired me because I was crying all the time
Her monologue would still have revolved around The dog
and by now, I am long past her insane rhetoric
long past the idiotic dog
no longer do I hear her maddening voice
As I start my own litany
she pauses for air like a swimmer
just emerged from underwater
aware of my sudden presence
For One Minute of Your Time
People rot in the overheated waiting room
slumped over hard chairs
foreheads bathed in sweat
Some stamp their feet with impatience
sit on the bare floor
stare at a queue ticket like a prisoner stares
at the key hole of his cell door
Women rock crying babies
whisper reassuring words
struggle to appease them with water bottles
to shield them from a bacterial mist
of sneezing and coughing
spreading promiscuously through the room
Five hours later
everyone is starving
conversations drag
At last a glacial nurse calls my number
stares at me as if I were a leper
takes me to a claustrophobic closet
where I wait another half hour
eavesdropping on other patients’ consultations
because no one has the time
or tact
to close doors
A doctor enters
addresses me from the height of his pedestal
and after one minute
he hands me a hieroglyphic prescription
then disappears like a fleeting vision
trying to break his own speed record
zooming from closet to closet
I waited five hours for this moment
Tell me I’m dreaming
A déjà vu from a previous life?
A medieval city
somewhere in the old continent
during the “Dark Ages”?
Please, tell me I’m dreaming
Tell me, please
Prima Donna in the Kitchen
Here’s that French
chef
in a fit of rage again
he slams doors, dunks down plates
fires pots and pans in the sink
vegetables and breads are flying
crashing to their death
he rips his apron
throws it in the air
nearly trips over fallen utensils
grabs a terrified sous-chef
hacks the air
knife in hand
threatens to go back to France
where he can find real baguettes, real pâté
real wine, real madeleine, real cheese, real croissants
real cooks
he wedges his way between stunned sous-chefs
brooding under his white tower of a hat
high with eminence
he sips his angry glass of wine
swearing the whole kitchen is conspiring
against him
sauces curling into lumps
vegetables turning to mush
soufflés collapsing to nothing
casseroles overflowing
salads shrivelled and dying
crème brulée set on fire
the cook almost torched to death
what did I ever do to the good God
to deserve this pack of idiots
he sips another rich transfusion
of Beaujolais
departs the kitchen theatrically
amid a blaze of Oh là là
Emmanuelle Vivier is a Freelance Translator.
She was born in Paris, France, but has lived in South-western Ontario for 18 years.
She is an Associate Member with the League of Canadian Poets.
Her work (in English & French) has appeared in The Dalhousie Review,
Tower Poetry Society (McMaster University), Room of One’s Own, Quills and Black Moss Press anthologies.
She is a member of the Writing Salon at the University of Windsor with Marty Gervais.
Email: Emmanuelle Vivier
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