Montreal

 
All the signs, in all the windows
that read—for rent—in French, seem,
at first glance, to say—a lover.

We came for a summer weekend
when she was looking for an
apartment. The first of many
rooms where we would cry
into each other’s bodies. Where
her tongue, fisted, would beat words
into my body until the Greyhound
took me back to Toronto. Bloody,
I used to lick my arms and legs
on these streets. But now

I dip my bagel in the hummus. Admire
the shoes. Wonder whether espresso
is masculine or feminine. Grateful
there is someone new to ask.