from the collection of K.I. Press Born in the Parliament Buildings
(from Types of Canadian Women)
from the collection of K.I. Press I learned acting from the gallery. As Speaker, Father seldom spoke. Sometimes he wore me under his robes, and smuggled me into the chamber. When I was very small, under his wig. Tickled through filibusters. Before, he brought my mother there, at night. The M.P.s had retired to their wings with torches, bending, reading, paper after paper, the building practically aflame. The Green Room in its rich woods and verdant velvets. They danced. They made love in the Prime Minister’s chair, inside the same enormous robe. Daytimes, she sat curled up under his desk, and kept him warm as he reviewed procedures. Her water broke and out I fell, fit neatly in the filing drawer. I grew in secret floorboard compartments, came out in antechambers of dignitaries. The Grits took over. I went to a convent and then to New York. I took to the stage.
A dream recurs. I am Roxane. A man speaks to me with my father’s voice.
And indeed I am Roxane, six nights a week, hearing the eloquence of men and swordplay, never knowing the truth. They talk and they talk, I make believe. The walls are red, the ground is red, the swords are falling all over me.
"Born in the Parliament Buildings" previously appeared in The Beloit Poetry Journal.
