Misha Solomon (he/him) is a homosexual poet in and of Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. He is the author of two chapbooks, FLORALS (above/ground press, 2020) and Full Sentences (Turret House Press, 2022), and his work has appeared in Best Canadian Poetry, Arc Poetry Magazine, CV2, The Fiddlehead, GEIST, Grain, The Malahat Review, The New Quarterly, and Riddle Fence. His debut full-length collection, My Great-Grandfather Danced Ballet, is forthcoming with Brick Books in 2026.
“I wrote ‘Ernest Dances Siegfried in Swan Lake’ in response to the English translation by Alexandra Kolb (from 2019) of a German poem, ‘The Dancer,’ by Ernst Wilhelm Lotz (from 1916). The poem also responds to the Tchaikovsky ballet Swan Lake (1875 – 1876), or at least to my recollections of it from pop culture.”
“I wrote ‘We’re Sure’ in response to an untitled painting by my grandmother, Arna Solomon, who was a prolific artist. She died in 2001, and the painting came from the last decade of the 20th century.”
There’s a moment in the grand adage:
Siegfried lifts Odette above his head
vision obscured by layers of tulle
his hands grip ribs and could those ribs
not be his lover’s?
And his lover, watching below,
staring upward, feels his torso
pressed by sturdy hands.
And they discover, as fortunate others
have before, that when two lovers dream
in unison the world for once spins kindly,
an alteration of the poles’ magnetic
pull, a proof that naught can’t be the source nor
purpose of all this, one lover’s hands upon
another’s ribs, in flagrant dereliction of
the horror known as truth.
Two lovers dance the “Love Duet”
for a rapt audience
who will never know
this trick of happenstance,
save for one wide-eyed girl
who’ll find it out when she and her lover
dream of ice lollies on a scorching
August night, both women wake up
sweet and cool
with tacky tongues.
The new painting we put up above the mantel
is a calla lily still-life with a leopard-print border
and I say
we put up but really G— put it up
and I say
new painting but it’s an old painting by my grandmother
and I say
my grandmother but she’s my late grandmother
and I say
leopard print and my friend says very gay
and I say
my grandmother painted it and my friend says maybe she’s gay
and I say
she’s dead—
but isn’t death just a queering of life
and my friend says
I love that I need that in writing
and I say
the new painting we put up above the mantel
is a calla lily still-life with a leopard-print border
and G— says
are we sure we like it there
meaning he’s not sure he likes it there
and I say
we’re sure
meaning my grandmother is dead.
