In April, or maybe May,
past the metal gate at the end of the dirt road
which I had seen out the bus window many times,
and always wondered where it ended,
privately, we each looked around to make sure we were alone.

The grass of a quiet field beneath our feet,
curved down towards the mute valley past the water tower and the horses
(miles away and a decade past, now, it is a groundhog on the hillside,
and the white tanks of an oil refinery across the river).

We spoke quietly,
our voices carried across the silence and the low, unmoving clouds,
and I reached out to touch your sweater,
and felt your waistline meet my palm.

In a moment as in any other,
your lips, as of any others I’d known,
met mine along the hillside
uncharted for us both.

The blurred kiss in that moment field,
the first letter of a question which,
miles away and a decade past, I still ask myself
from time to time.

≋

April 14, 2021
Plaines d'Abraham, Québec City