December 2019 it was. On what shore have those thirty years of white ribbons left us? At the bottom of which sea are all the surrendered arms?
L. Cohen sang “in streams of light I clearly saw/the dust you seldom see,/out of which the Nameless makes/a Name for one like me.” In considering the Montreal massacre thirty years on, I found I had given more thought to images than words. But the nameless need to be named. Ribbons are as slippery as the concept of freedom to be. They shimmer too brilliantly against the dark crimson of human suffering. The moon goddesses, mistresses of time, weave, measure and cut our lives. Ribbons and goddesses are perfect for poetry. But where do the sharp, shiny, pointed shears fit?
Until the words come together, I’ll continue with my work in progress, pinning the ribbons like dead insects onto the page called Death, writing the names on a long ribbon to be contemplated by a paper goddess.