As I stare at myself in this mirror,
I realize that I will never be extraordinary.
Standing in this body that isn’t mine,
a body simply being controlled by others
unconsciously.
I live for them in these moments,
in this body—
a body that’s just ordinary.
My soul picked it.
So, I begin to pick myself apart,
down to my most untouched self,
my truest form being enhanced by the soft glow.
Trying to compress myself,
back into an essence,
into nothing but light and my emotions.
This physical form isn’t the real me,
so I’ll keep digging
until I see myself bleed.
only fragments
whispers of words wielded summers ago
shadows of ink scrubbed out of carpets
scars of paper cuts and typewriter keys. nothing
remains completely.
the echoes of dreams and clay moulds of wishes. i can smell the chalk white, the blank page.
a hoarse voice, a dying tongue, rings out from before.
At Dusk Each Day
i like to wallow and turn my fountain pen over in my hands
like a sand timer. i like to listen to my stomach growl,
a chained dog,
i like to wish that i could claw myself out of this life.
i imagine the whiteness of it. the peace. the feeling of morning air.
the unseasonable chill of the summer clouds. i try to forget
my faults. i fantasise that
i am faultless. At Dusk Each Day
i am a statue, sitting cross legged on a double bed,
wishing i had a lighter. i am empty i am full
i am lost an agitated shell against
the setting sky.
I feel most beautiful when I am unseen,
When every inch of my body is covered.
When sweaters and socks,
Pajama pants and beanies,
All hug me tight like no one ever has
Let me be invisible,
Holed up in my shell of garments,
For at least a little bit,
So that I can be loved
By me alone
Let me be indivisible.
A black hole
That can hardly be perceived
A singularity
That holds my whole sum
Let me be intangible,
Ethereal and phantasmal,
In a realm of my own,
Unbothered as I weep
Silent tears
The clock ticks, a soft and steady sigh,
As fleeting moments slip and fly,
The days blur by in whispers faint,
And I feel the ache, the quiet complaint.
Each second lost, a piece of me,
Caught in the flow, where none are free,
A year has passed, so swift, so fast,
Yet still I reach for what will last.
But in the wings of time’s cruel flight,
A new dawn waits, glowing bright,
A year ahead, untold, unknown,
A canvas fresh, all mine to own.
The ache of moments fades away,
For in the promise of the day,
2025 stands bold and true,
A chance for dreams to start anew.
So, though the past may pull and plead,
And time, relentless, takes its heed,
I hold my breath for what may come,
A new year’s song, a beat, a drum.
With joy and hope, I face the sky,
Embracing change as years pass by,
For though time moves with fleeting grace,
The future waits in love’s embrace.
What should we make of a country that takes
Donald Trump as its leader
a second time?
The first time could be seen as an unplanned marriage –
that pounding head waking up the morning after in Vegas
married to the wedding singer moment.
But the second time? Knowing what’s passed between you?
After finally getting the chance to raise your unheard voice –
who would make this choice?
They know he won’t change but they’ve missed the wild swings of their Toddler King.
Apparently.
Oh, imagine Donald Trump the toddler.
No, not the grown man behaving badly but the real boy
small and stumbling and awkward, the occasional bump on his knees when he fell
counting on others to teach him how to share his toys
how to keep breathing when the focus shifted from here to there.
Someone should have shown him how to win and how to lose – with grace,
should have lit up at his delight, that smile on his little face.
Maybe someone did. But the unquenchable thirst to be first
came from somewhere and I can see past those burned down places in his heart
to that small boy still not sure of his worth.
And now? He crashes through the world like a dime store King Kong
poorly manufactured and smelling like fear
to all who come near him;
climbing his way to the tops of tall buildings
with pulleys and strings and ropes and things
hoping no one will notice he’s plastic and broken
and made mainly in Moscow.
He’s not content to simply be President of those United States,
to fix all that’s been broken with each word that’s spoken. It’s not enough.
He wants more. He starts with his nose pressed close
against the window of the Oval Office –
not even President yet, he proposes Canada be the 51st state,
supposes Greenland can be his with a cheque (payable at a later date)
and demands that the Panama Canal be returned – to him.
I imagine him stamping his tiny feet
as he wanders down empty and echoing marbled halls
chased by the unpaid debt of promises unmet at home
before he throws his sprawling ambition
against everybody else’s walls.
Canada won’t riot when the Toddler King calls our Prime Minister
the Governor of the 51st state. We’ll stay quiet.
But Greenland’s tied to Denmark and the Danes won’t play
the toddler’s game. They don’t ignore him or redirect him.
They firmly decline his offer and a biting satirical claim makes the rounds
in their name:
Why doesn’t Denmark run the States
if the job is too much for him to handle,
why don’t they create world-class education
and health care without corruption or scandal?
Under their cool and steady hands, the satirist reassures us
in a social media post
the country could be transformed from an empty mass of land
into a great nation. Again. He hopes.
The real Danes have a storied history of pushing
their Viking longboats out into the nearest sea
when the tides are right
reaching boldly towards their goals even if it means they have to fight.
These modern-day Danes aren’t looking for trouble,
don’t joke about conquering their friends
but, like all reasonable folks, they look for fire
every time they smell smoke.
Some people treat the Toddler King’s extra-territorial posturing as humour.
Can’t you take a joke? they say grimly
but nobody is laughing. Nobody dares smile.
Even Canada speaks up –
Isn’t customarily sorry after a while.
United for once from rural to urban
we give up on our neighbourly ties one by one
starting with Kentucky bourbon.
My mind wrestles me from sleep most nights
eyes still burning from the shock
of my latest social media feeds I lie
wide awake and wondering
If it’s too late to turn back the clock
so that Donald Trump the man
could let Donald Trump the boy
out of his frozen ice castle to play
before the Danes release their Vikings
and the next Great Age of Invasion is on its way?
Am I disgusting for letting him strip my shirt from my skin so I can feel an ounce of what I think love could possibly be? How can I hate my body so much, but then also only believe a man could ever want me for my curves, a braless chest made for his hands. I want to scrub the remnants of his scent from my skin and also bask in the fact that he wanted at least some small fraction of me. Shh, don’t talk, it will ruin the moment. The moment where I draw the line and say my pants should stay on. A few moments later letting myself go because he wants more of me so I give and I give because at least there is something of mine he wants to take. Not my heart. Not my mind. Something is more than nothing, right?
when no one knows,
the wind will gust
again and again
until the final push
and the dead Elm
crashes in darkness –
and you won’t even know
it happened.
In darkness
Spring wind reforms
with pressure and gravity –
the touring planets
and conspicuous moon
cycles – the turmoil
of a planet in motion –
in a universe that never
sits still, never waits
on you.
Some March night
change has come, and
you are surprised? This
was foretold by the perpetrators
you blindly follow – and by
prophets you ignored,
or ridiculed and cursed
in your stupid self-
absorption.
You don’t know
how the wind blows,
so how can you make peace?
Preoccupied with pettiness,
you can’t possibly know
truth – love dissipates –
brotherhood falls headlong
on some sobering night
at the spurious mercy
of March wind.
If Jesus was a man, He was written by a woman.
He would have been an ally A brother And a friend.
So why do you give me a Jesus you don’t understand?
Why does your Jesus say it’s okay to follow me down alleyways as I squeeze my partner’s hand
tighter and tighter terrified you’ll grab me and say how I have sinned while I only care that I
created the cancer that makes me a mother you scream that I’m a murderer (like I don’t
know that) I’m walking faster shaking more struggling with my keys against
the fight or flight that killed my fingers my car can’t unlock fast enough
and this parking lot is so much bigger than it needs to be I see a face I
think I know oh God she taught my grade ten physiology she knows
every pastor in the state an advocate for the unadvocatable
(at least that’s what she thinks) I’m scared you mangle
the words inside my head screaming out “you
fucking whore, do you not care for human
life?” I hide my head to save you the
burden of knowing the face of a
murderer matches your
daughter’s I open the
car door and you
grab my arm
YOU GR
AB MY
AR
M
why would you do this to me?
If Jesus was man, He was written by a woman.
A woman who would understand the hypocritic shouts of slurrers and southerners
Would do nothing but make a woman want to cry, And a man feel empowered.
As if I was nothing but a body for pleasure and parentage.
If Jesus was a man, he wouldn’t be like you.
