Tuesday 17 April 2012

17/30

When you broke open
on the hardwood floor
I remember the sound of then
spilling from the room.
Millions of pieces, cutting your fingers
trying to reach them all
as I listened to my sister's 2 year old giggle
the winding creak of fishing line
the lawnmower's cough,
all of them
spinning into small circles
going down the drain.

I did not say you could take those away.

Instead,
dug up my tin cans, my binoculars,
my flat stone collection
took them to the burrow to sit,
watched the kitchen window
as my father burst open on the counter
my sister's wailing voice ringing through the streets
the sound of then
stepping into the boots of now
It is quiet, now,
I press the whitest stone into my palm
and listen to my parents
dream themselves further apart
than their seperate beds.

16/30


Penance
clean your hair,
part down the middle,
braid through, around, over,
sweep up.

Wear your finest dress,
straighten the collar,
take the lord on a chain
round your swan-white throat,
now wait.

This is a new contraption
you three are the original sin
we are capturing your hail mary's
so start saying them now.

Take your love letters out
ask forgiveness with your eyes
hold them to your brow

you'll feel a flash,
count to three,

when the bulb bursts
pray.

Monday 16 April 2012

15/30

When you are paired,
and settled,
and golden and light,

you will not have a word
for it.

They will pause, and approach,
they will touch and moan,
they will ignite

and you will look away.

How do you remember
your sparked beginning?
How do you ressurect
your love's every first?

The parking lots, the concerts,
the gentle farewell touches
that left you glowing,
the backseats that you ached for.

How do you unravel the envy
that wraps up your aching hips
your twitching heart,

because you had that, once.
You could not stand
to keep from holding one another.
Now you are lucky
if streetlamps ever see
that same abandon.

You dream
of an 'End of War' kiss.

14/30

I am in bed, beside my mate; this is my last breath.

To my sister (and I know I will be leaving first) I give my poems. Every one. I wrote them all in some effort to grow, to be the ventriliquist and throw myself to other lives. You taught me to want this.


I am writing a Thank You card to my editor; this will be my last submission.

To my cousin I give my smile
. You never left that place. You never saw the beautiful woman you ended up becoming. I give you every ounce of cherished my dad let me feel. I give that learned love I saw my parents have. I give you every ounce of my childhood.

I am watching my grandson graduate; he wants to be an architecht.

To Keely, I give my limbs. You know to move with abandon, they will be safe with you.
I am making the last mortgage payment; we can do anything, now, love.

To Francis, I give my wishlists. My post-it notes. My napkin To Dos and the penned reminders on my hand. You knew how to see everything through. You never once forgot to live.

I am graduating college; I am moving on.

To my father, I give my patience. For all your giving hands, for all your curt replies. May the polished parts of this man you became still hold room for silence.

I am starting grade 6; I am all shades of fear.

To my mother, I give my sea-coral heart. We are soaking up our worry; we are spilling all our hope.

I am 3 years old, I am the beginning of memory.

To the city, I give my freckles. I blossomed most when your sun let them out.

I am asleep, here, in the warm dark.

To my love, I give my shame. It is yours to destroy, whatever is left, now. You were the creek I walked across.

13/30

Between the water heater
and summer dresses,
I can hear that night
in his hotel room.
I can hear the twitching feet
of spiders
running across my cheeks
as I moan the way I think
it sounds most genuine.
Sitting under sheets of dust
I can hear the sound of tires
skidding on gravel
the cliff opening its arms
the ocean unhinging its jaw.
The closet doors
guard, Narnia-like,
the sight of me, sunlight in my hair
sand between my toes,
leaving a trail of sinew, tissue,
and a dozen red, beating muscles
in my wake.

12/30

There is tea in your bathrobe
there is glass near the door
the dog is crying from the hallway.
you are asleep on the floor.

There are coins on your bed sheets
there's dad's voice on the phone
there's a needle in the trash can
you thought no one was home.

Sunday 15 April 2012

11/30

When you never woke up,
I crawled from the pool of light at your feet
and leapt from the bed.
I wandered from the room, keeping close to every wall,
looking back at the door frame
whining.
I tore apart your gym bag
shredded your favourite tearaways
chewed the wiring of your squash racquet
till I found your deodarant.
I nudged it against the counter
until it sprayed across the floor,
I watched as we floated in the mist in the kitchen sun
my nose running up your spine
as you towel off from the shower
As the scent blooms
the apartment is soaking with you

every moment of abandon
in the hidden quiet of this home
is vanishing in this mist.

The windows are open,
all of your whispered surrender
is catching the afternoon breeze from this room.

I am on all fours
at the temple of my once-body
the childhood tomb I crawled from
when my limbs found a heart to yield to.
That moment when,
amidst the flurry of only-nights
you cry out under the weight
of an always.
And just like that,
you get it.

In mere seconds, the shrouded shape of you
is gone through the mosquito screen.

My whine becomes a howl
as I watch you leave without me.

Wednesday 11 April 2012

10/30

When I said, 'Will you have me," you said, "No."
My father did not change, so she never came back.
My mother coded blue on the floor of the  Nurses' bathroom.
The Studio said "Yes,"; I became an actress. I never went to a slam.
He thought, "She's too young", and left her alone.
My best friend told me sooner, and told him to stop.
My sister stayed in Ottawa, and amounted to nothing.
I married him, and amounted to less.

9/30

a staircase to creep down,
a railing to gaze from,
a chipped front door to miss the markings of.
An archetype so few of us lived,
but lies quiet in our tiny aches for different beginnings.
In our minds we were that child,
had that lawn,
heard 'I love you', in a 'Good morning' kind of often.
We sit cross legged by the legs of our elders
listen to their sepia hearts,
and do not hesitate to bring
our generation to dinner.

When you dated a boy from Ethiopia,
you changed the settings on your photo albums,
lest you don't get an invite to Christmas dinner.
You live like they hoped you would now,
without even meaning to.

You fantasize about disaligning,
that what if of the left-wing majority,

soapboxing all the normal that has bred
in the past 50 years
holding them down, gently,
and making them
listen.

Sunday 8 April 2012

8/30

Tell me that real fear,

like leaving might block the sun
like holding might bring the rain
like clinging might open the sewers
like changing might kill the hope
like growing might take
all your to-do lists
your everywish
your brave kisses
your earned joy

and destroy it all.

7/30

I lied and said I'd marry you.

The nurse in the ICU counted the narcotics locker, changed the bedpans, administered Oxycontin to the man in A2 who mistook her for his late wife, and began to choke himself with the curtain.

I lied and said you were perfect.

The officer knocked the homeless woman to the ground, remote controls, iPods and car stereos fell out of her pockets, her purses, her pantlegs. When she bit him on the thumb, he tasered her on the birthmark behind her left ear.

I told you I wanted children with you.

The pilot disengaged the back-up engine, watching as the clouds gave way, revealing Richmond's dragon's mouth landscape, and the quiet symmetry of the tarmac.

I said everything I could think of
while the butterflies camouflaged to look like owl-wings, while the Canadian geese migrated to muted tableau of Central Park, while a pack of coyotes circle a lost dog in the dark of Everett Crowley park.

The CEO took the esteemed guest to a wine & cheese bar, the Vice President drafted his resignation, the Manager of Accounting came in on a Saturday.

While couples whispered genuine forevers between pillows and streetlights, while a mother slapped her daughter for the very first time.

While the world span,

I lied, and promised, and kissed,

and left you for the real thing.

6/30

Newsie hats. Wool sweaters.
Form fitting coats, big wooden buttons.
Vacation photos, spring breaks from
midterms, exams, student student studentlife.
Campus sunshine. Stolen kisses between classes,
corners of the library, waiting on paper grades.
All nighters, starbuck line up,
the red of our bank accounts that mark us
as construction site adults. Dorms,
thrift-store fashion finds, gum boots,
a whole sectioned city, self-sustaining.
B-line stories, the tired that creeps up,
beers after lecture, the feeling of a Friday,
Cambie Street bridge walks, Seawall Saturday walks,
Tuesday night blowing off steam runs,
the trails of Stanley Park,
the places you find yourself, with friends, with cameras,
on every night you document.

I am going through your facebook albums,
all of you.
I am envying you, UBC student, East-Van artist,
Main Street hipster, Kitsilano yogi,
west-end traveler, North Van hiker,
Commerical Drive dreadlocks.

You found so many corners in this city's heart
to call home, to sculpt towers and 5-year plans,
you are figuring it out, out there.

And I am still here, wondering,
marveling,
aching for a map
and some sticks to light a fire with.

Saturday 7 April 2012

5/30

Fact: I used to crawl under beds.
Any chance I got, I'd be flattened
skittering beneath metal frames and boxsprings,
it was my high ground,
my knot in the oak tree.
I could see all I needed,
6 inches from the floorboards.

On top floor of my childhood home
we placed the bedrooms,
I could stand on the windowsill
above my sister's bed, look down
on our street, our lawn,
all the strangers coming through
the front door.

The morning of my nana's birthday
there were more people than I knew the names of
milling about, sipping tea,
wandering around our quaint street
sharing their thoughts on
the weather, their children,
the quality of cookies at the kitchen table.

I was on my tip-toes, watching my nana
pinkie in the air, smiling at the chatter around her,
taking in the street from my crows nest
my sister's pillows crumpled from my path up.

He had dark eyelids, a neck not used to craning up,
a sweater the colour of our china cabinet.
He saw me. He was through the doorway, on his way up.

I am gone. My knees are kindergarten quick,
down the hallway, carpet burn agile,
I am in my high ground, 6 inches of sightline.

Twelve seconds later, his socks are walking to my sister's room,
behind my invisible path down the hall,
he is following my scent.

I hold my breath as he walks past the bed,
he does not call out, this is not his house
he does not know the little girl's name.

His socks disappear back down the stairs.
I breathe again, 22 years old,
wondering if this would be a different poem
if I hadn't known how to treat the world
like a hiding place.

4/30


Vancouver Summer,

You mark a flag in me
yellowtail hunger
sugar-rimmed patio glasses
all the breeze you wish for.

You are the dreams nestled
in my winter spine.

How is it we give over so much
to your waiting face?
Didn't we learn
never to love this way?

Cyclic in your giving
you will break our heart again,
soon.

And we will smile,
tears on our sun-kissed cheeks,
as you do it.

3/30

Through the library window
a man is sitting, motionless.
Through the windshield of his silver Jetta
he is imagining an escape
ladder rungs twisting up and out
swirling a double-helix getaway
from his driver's seat
to some quiet attic
in a heaven of Saturday mornings
and "Thank You" cards on
every windowsill.

He is biting lip
watching the traffic move
like coral reef without him.

A woman (his?) is at the window,
hands him papers and the
silver bracelet from her wrist,
she is speaking to the air around him.

She is upsetting him
with her shoulders, her swan posture,
her chatter, her empty ring finger.

You never learned to lip-read
but you can tell conflict
through sheets of glass,
from miles, cities away.

We never meant to learn that second language.

2/30


The man seated across from you
is slurping
smacking lips, beast and pen
bits of his pastry
trailing down to his crotch.

He is proud

perched like a hog in heat
diagonal your loveseat spine
collarbone taut and twitching

he is staring at your skinny jeans.

You can't look him square in the eyes -
you're afraid it will unleash
that last bit of posture
keeping you in your seat
binding your restraint
from kicking him in the balls.

You didn't go to work today.
Instead, you sat on your living room carpet
contemplating the painted walls
translating the handprints in the dust
behind the bookcase
waiting waiting
for something else to grieve.

Monday 2 April 2012

1/30


Just like that
the pennies fell
the counter split
beneath the weight of the kettle
and you watched the crowd
give way.

Nothing beneath our grief
keeps us rooted

no helium string effort
plucking our shadows
from the pavement.

Our everything
is temporal, now.

We are building a safe space
on the backs of wedding invitations
on the sides of bus stops
in open parks
and in our hipped throats:

the ones that speak for our
lower halves
with our upper halves' voice.

Nothing we say, now,
can retract what we shouted.

We just have to live it out.

Like bridge fences
Like slam stages.
Like hotel room floors
and crying the whole drive home.