Not Suffering in Montreal

After years of peeling the layers of grief
from the tender spaces between my cells

I have chiseled the stone and untangled the thorny vines
that revolve around the blushing martyr I had forgotten.

Now, walking the luxurious streets of Montreal,
I glance at myself in a window
and can smile at that wise novitiate,
blisters forming
on my tired feet.

Tonight I will let my head spin
with some cold wine
and an easy breath
that opens my heart as wide
as the seaway entering the ocean
one wave of suffering drifting away
at a time.