There You Are
by Mitchell Albert
Even once aboard, I feel the stinging cold
and as the train begins to heave
away from the old country station,
away from the spiny, alabaster mountains,
I see you,
crossing your arms in midair,
again and again,
your face alit.
At my seat, I prepare to collapse;
in my head I am already in the city.
Ten hours into the future, I sink into my bed,
next to the woman waiting in it,
and tell her of your joyous farewell.
Now, I drop my bags and watch you through the window.
You recede in slowest motion,
your eyes singing,
your whole-bodied smile gently mocking
my exhaustion.
The morning is illumined by your gesture,
not by the stingy sun.
The scarf wrapped round your head
sounds a note of vivid colour,
defying the gravelly sky.
For the last time, you wave your arms,
and I make a noise like a laugh,
astonished by the contrast between us:
you are so young,
I am so old.
Not ten years afterward I dip a shovel
into a mound of earth,
and hear the dirt smack dryly on polished wood,
and begin to describe you
to different women, in different cities.
There’s the train, there’s the distance;
no more station, no more mountains.
There you are,
slowly windmilling your arms,
and smiling.
Mitchell Albert is a London-based book and magazine editor born and raised in Montreal. He is also the editorial director of PEN International. Although he has fielded countless submissions of poetry, essays, short stories, articles and novels, his entry for the Montreal Prize represents the first time he has submitted his own work for a publication or prize.