The undulating waves of color
traced across Canadian bills
always made them seem more beautiful.
Spiraling sinusoidal curves remind me
of the rolling landscape of British Columbia,
and the way your smile still echoes
in your cheeks after it has faded.

I once heard someone proclaim,
"It's like the whole country
is 30% off!" And they were right.
Each time I watch your tongue
press warm against your bottom teeth
as you talk, I feel as if I have stolen something.
A thing too precious, and I too jealous

to give it back. You see,
in retrospect I have decided
that your hair must taste like chocolate.
The kind melted in a far away kettle,
carried by Clydesdales to Newfoundland
and stuffed into the face of an eager little boy
running through the tall grass, chasing his red kite.

The kind that is too sweet to feed to Americans.
We, who cheat your coins into vending machines,
secretly envying the majesty of your money,
pray that some of the splendor might rub off.
Or, at the very least, Canada, that you might come flying
again and like a honking goose, announce yourself
by smothering me with your wings.