ARMAND GARNET RUFFO
The Rusty Toque | Issue 12 | Poetry | June 30, 2017
Against Forgettingthe atmosphere called for torrential rain moss black earth stone trunks of cedar birch pine spruce kilometers wide clinging to each our limbs drooping green thick and heavy and every body one direction inward towards each other all of us alone in this generational sidestep for the first time for many above ground Inside forward we thought no backward choice we chose NOW though maybe not if possible in debwewin – truth in our mouths mouthing silence in the overwhelmed provoking bits of memory sanctuary something akin to dawn’s first light a hug smile kindness warmth in the moment when all was all of us On side into ceremony we passed and then unrecognizable even to ourselves grace lifting us beyond petty who we are are not wish we were our hands carefully unknotting moving into each pulse of kinship friendship family upon us like the feet of running we all could hear in our blood when the drumming stopped the singing the rain eyes gazing down upon the tiny graves At Pere Lachaise Everything changes except my love writes Apollinaire. At his stark gravesite the heavy sky opens and comes down hard enough to tick- tock against the granite tombs, where I notice other tourists trying desperately to follow their maps in the stone maze. How can we not think there is a moment in our lives we all want to relive? To say sorry, bask in the indomitable light of forgiveness. But we all know sometimes there is no chance to make amends. The distance of a lifetime will not allow it. We would only look foolish. Besides a straight line without variance in the end shortens everything. My son plays among the countless graves, and I make sure to keep an eye on him. He could easily get lost in the grey afternoon. The rain doesn’t let up, and I call it another day in Paris, the wettest they say in 150 years, As we head off to the nearest café. The CatLike a movie the scene begins to roll Grainy and silent when I least expect it. A movie where the road does not go on forever Where cars and trucks do not mean freedom And children wear short pants and suspenders But are not forever young. That’s me on the edge of the yard Agape in my childhood on this summer day When a storm of dust swells and fills me With something of biblical proportion Barely comprehensible. There it is again, the black and white Dragging its splayed hind legs A half-body screeching and clawing Its way across the dirt trying to get home. So loud I oddly cannot hear it. Until an old neighbour hurries over And looks down in a moment of knowing Then over to me where I stand fixed And uttering what can only be a prayer Or a curse he raises his shotgun And blows the poor cat’s head off. The ComingThat summer we woke morning upon morning to witness the spectacle unfold before us. And let our boat drift, fishing lines unattended, dangling over the side, waves rocking us in our exquisite excitement. Our heads titled up, way up, we put our hands to shield eyes against the rising dawn, and waited for the coming. As she guided her little one with what I could only imagine appropriate coaxing and prodding, as he searched for his ability, his confidence in the maneuver. And, then, it was upon us, and I looked at you, a son who would inevitably say goodbye, and you looked at me and smiled, And we turned together to the tiny eagle plummeting before us, never once veering, never once breaking, as he hit the lake’s surface And rose with a fish. |
ARMAND GARNET RUFFO'S writing is strongly influenced by his Ojibway heritage. His poetry recently appeared in The Best Canadian Poetry 2016 (Tightrope Books). Publications include Introduction to Indigenous Literary Criticism (broadview, 2016), The Thunderbird Poems (Harbour, 2015), and Norval Morrisseau: Man Changing Into Thunderbird (D&M, 2014), a finalist for a Governor General’s Literary Award. He currently teaches at Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario.
