how odd that I am here in october, scarred
scraped streets, waiting for the return of snow, searching for eleanor, a name, my mother, the one who let me go, adopted, how many times have i said the word? euphemism for unwanted, union of man & woman, for a minute? an hour? a lifetime? questions for canada, where she danced before moving to the u.s. to birth me-
alone in the archives, sifting through microfiche, obituaries, royal winnipeg ballet documents, playbills, eleanor christie, just a name, everything & nothing-
at night i dine on foie gras at resto gare in saint-boniface, flickering french lights, wine’s floating ether, who was she? who am i?-
shiver of winter air’s arrival, i tried, but you are gone.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This piece is poetic fiction. I am not adopted.
Daniel W. Polk 