loss
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September, You
“Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.”-e. e. cummings Notions of love are a sometimes-heaven, like how, with the morning, a star becomes the colour of the sky. In a bad state I begin to feel we’re in the country again, this time forever– worse, this time for the last time forever. I… Continue reading
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You Came Out Of The Night
You came out of the night– I mistook your gunpowder for summer lightning and sank into the glamour of your soul. You were born upwards, like a flame, all in a sudden and I was born a chill running through my mother’s bones. To leave you I had to leave behind the entire world, so Hello… Continue reading
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Perhaps
One week ago I planted morning glories. Four to six weeks before the last frost for early blooms, the little envelope said. Six wetted seeds lay soaking overnight, dreaming of a trellis, and were then each placed one centimetre deep in cheap dollar store soil. A week later and five have crept up to reveal… Continue reading
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Two Chairs
It was the sort of day in early June that might’ve been late September. There was a man sitting out on his front lawn, on a folding chair, experiencing that curious sensation brought on only by certain weather where we feel ourselves not remembering, but being visited by memory, so captivating is it’s scent and… Continue reading
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Letter To My Mother
I’m not ready, mother, to be a woman yet– I don’t have the pots and pans for it I don’t have the range of spices, thyme or marjoram, what is marjoram, or tartar for that matter, and nothing’s labeled, the cupboard’s sticky but I’m not picky I don’t have enough plates or glasses I embarrass… Continue reading
About Me
A poet living in Ontario. Mostly works of memoir and poetry that focus on motherhood, womanhood, and relationship to self.