A collection of my poems, both old and new.
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"Assassinations: a comparative study"
On the night they killed Yitzhak Rabin, a man sat on a chesterfield outside Jean Chrétien's unlocked bedroom doors, staring at the jackknife in his hand.
On the night they killed Yitzhak Rabin, a man slipped through the musical ride and wandered about the yard, dancing through the forest to the cliffside edge of the St. Lawrence. Perhaps he thought of jumping in, of ending it all, of allowing the nation to sleep better with its ignorance as his body washed up three days later in the Great Lakes, corroded by the mercury yet still untouched by scandal.
On the night they killed Yitzhak Rabin, a call for peace in his bloodstained jacket pocket, the world became divided. It splintered into those who live, those who die, and those we force to do the killing.
On the night they killed Yitzhak Rabin, a young man crossed over from Hull into Ottawa, swimming, perhaps, to clear his head. He was scared, confused, unable to understand the world his mother had brought him into. Perhaps he was more comfortable within the womb of his illusions. Perhaps, when the contractions began to force him out, he clung to his mother's ribs, sunk his teeth into her gall, and came out screaming nonetheless.
On the night they killed Yitzhak Rabin, as Mrs. Chrétien opened the bedroom door to see a child with a knife, perhaps he saw his mother's sweaty, puff-eyed face. And when she locked him out, perhaps he cried, knowing that his jackknife blade was too dull and rusty to sever that umbilicus.
[An excerpt from my stageplay Canada Ending and Other Wars of 1812]
