In Cap-Pelé, the Acadian girl
says I am Acadian enough,
enough dérangement, enough
La Saguine, enough Chiac in me.
We teach the Parisian Old French,
Hardes, frettes, and bailler,
And the new, boddrer, tchorieux,
Worry pas ton tcheour.
My grandmother taught herself
English by reading The Godfather.
She’d wait for my grandfather
to come home so she could ask,
“C’est quoi pimp?” Or “Ça veut dire
quoi She let the makeup man bang her?”
When I was five my teacher had a tiny
blue square made of tape on the floor.
Whenever I spoke English she’d grab
me by the skin of my arm and place
me there to stand still and alone for
a while. All day in Cap-Pelé we eat
the compote, we tuft the yarn
into a hurricane’s white eye, into
spirea, into dots of blueberry.
The marram grass shines all colours,
the rocks redden, the houses
are peeling, and the ocean nears.
Ça brasse, one of them says.
We lean our whole selves into it.