Poem: The Recovering Separatist

now that I've left
I no longer harbour the white hot rage against the pages of history
that thumping textbook of reproach that sliced,
a paper cut always ready to be re-opened and bled

for a hunger than never seems to be fed.

My head is filled with non-Quebec thoughts
crowding out the Commandment to never forget.
In this other world, I slowly convert to that heresy
that religion
of Being One

Perhaps I could be less disconnected
if communion did not require assimilation
but for now I question
I am denounced
I am dead.