Guinea-pig whole and splayed on the plate.
The room they put you down in
bright, table-banter light.
This fear of death, it must be green. I see it
often, wrapped around her finger, a laurel film,
translucent, kind of pretty, darkened in dishwater
on days she can’t be brave.
The fly on my windowsill
crawls towards a hot sunbeam
between the dried raindrops
In public libraries,
she took to draping
strands of hair
across her spines
only to come back
years later to find
the grey intact.
In light of the recent Jian Ghomeshi sexual assault trial, Proving You Didn't Want It illustrates the Canadian Justice System's often absurd treatment of sexual violence cases.
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The street sparkled with ice and the remnants of midnight. Angela loved walking at night, especially in winter. The air so cold it singed the hair in her nostrils, the tree branches a broken calligraphy against the sky, the moon whitely grinning or opening its mouth wide to aaahhh, to sing. The silence of the empty empty streets.
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It’s too late to rename NASA’s lunar program but never too late to wonder why it was called Apollo and not Diana
It’s too late to be the kind of boy who grows up to be an astronaut
It’s too late to be any kind of boy
(girls can be anything but first they should be quiet)
How would we know they were happy?
we might ask.
A tan.
A row of cedars speak in tongues,
“Ah, what’s for dinner?
I am coming out of mourning”
I really beat up on some cookie dough today
battered it with a wooden spoon
historically I find them hard to hold
the rough unfinished handle
feels like some crusty piece of felt that was left to rot