She leaves her house of seashells and cotton wool from dolls and pillows, house of found wood, barn board once swollen with flash-rains of August. She leaves a house of batik pattern, house of well-thumbed books, house of heat-wave, no fans, loose tea and manikin house. Of all she’s collected, best is the beach glass, salted and abraded by daily scoldings on the shore. I do not know Canada in this way. No islands. These are the driftwood and shells of her some-other-country. Neither do I know the honest nets and bluffs, the grain waves and sputtering tractors, fractures of rock rising out of humming foothills. These are other people’s poems. I know only the logic of my city’s grid, and Queen Anne’s lace, and chain link fences, and firecrackers thrown between apartments on a suddenly free evening. I want to write about the still inlets her home inspires, jetties and dolphins alongside her dinghy. But these are someone else’s poems. This is someone else’s home.