Yes, we’re bored—& if I could emotionally afford to leave

& if your homeland weren’t burning, I would let you lead me

south to one of those dozen American towns called The Palisades—

make a life where the close of day, from our chrome balcony,

would look like a glitter-bomb lobbed at the horizon—

we’d have cars, a dozen, just to have them all (hey, Charlie)—

you would learn to drive & drive me all around, show me every-

thing & off, hot foreign wife in the land of pasteurized

milk & no-more-honey-all-the-bees-are-dying—

Instead I will marry you right here, you hunted thing,

throw this citizenship over your shoulders like a shock blanket—

we will love right here & our love will grow to suit this place;

adaptable, accustomed to weathering the cold—& we’ll

learn not to deny that cold will come. You’ll take only

what you need. We’ll watch Rome fall, smoke our legal weed,

& I’ll quiz you on what common words to add a U to—

favourite, colour, flavour—as we work the land, wear layers

for survival. But, for now, go—revel in the throes of the dream

& I will set up camp, will save the date of your arrival.

A. Light Zachary is a writer and editor in Toronto. Their first novel is The End, by Anna (Metatron, 2016).