We thought she was half-baked
from the medication
self-control had become overrun with
madness, forgetfulness
all those little pills to kill
the overbearing cancer
little objects found in odd places
left us wondering
‘Why would she do that?’
a ring hidden on a shelf
no one would ever find
unless they got an itch
to dust a shelf no one ever paid
attention to
an old bus pass underneath a basket
on top of the piano
we have since come to believe
to understand, rather
it was all done with purpose, not madness
as little reminders of her because
she was so afraid we might forget
– Ken Tomaro
Author’s Note: Much of my poetry is grounded in real life. This particular poem is the result of the death of a friend and a small glimpse of what happened afterward…
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The bunny’s on a coffee break
or late lunch, but
otherwise absent for
unlucky us, who
have walked here
from Vancouver’s storied West End
in hopes of an audience and
a ride through the temperate
rainforest of Stanley Park,
our daughter’s suggestion
to distract this four-year-old boy
briefly in our care
while she and his father
try to recreate
one of those afternoons
and evenings
they used to take for granted
in the good old days.…
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Nietzsche killed god a long time ago
And now I have no one to talk to.
IS ANYONE THERE?
I AM HERE….
ALONE
……………………………….WAITING.
……………………………….……………………………….……… See. I told you there was no god…
Ignore that, that’s just me talking to myself
You know, god being dead and all… I have to stay entertained somehow.
But I hear it’s okay to talk to yourself
As long as you don’t answer back…
……………………………….……………………………….……… You know, that reminds me of the time I shared with god…
You don’t say?…
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The body’s tense shoulder, its skin in a slip
with its mouth full of ribbons ––
How it sways with rain.
Slow coming on, the low horn –– same, same.
The stammering squeal of rail and wheel rising,
the face framed in reflection ––
The flash in the retina ––
A scattering, clouds, etcetera ––
The exit and smell of wet steel, the perforating flash
of white woods –– the elongated cry of the cat ––
the mind’s relent, gather, slack ––
Its penchant for rain ––
– Bevil Townsend
Author’s Note: This poem, among others, is an elegy for my late father and they come from a longer manuscript, Birdsong and Buckshot: An Elegiac Echo. I worked to construct these mellifluous poems through both traditional and invented forms to echo the bodily constraints the speaker experiences here in the physical world.…
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I
Did he not see?
that my stars were piqued by other starry fires
and I was chalking up
tediously
the hands of would-be ghosts,
that I was reaching for
the crags that would harden
my knuckles with shame
for my fear
my inaction out of fear,
my lack of art.
II
Little pine needles
scrape the arches
of my feet
in my inadequate shoes
He told me how to wear shoes properly,
bought me a good pair
and I’m sorry I sold them
I couldn’t I just couldn’t
and I’m sorry, you now, that I couldn’t bring myself
to teach you the same …
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Hot air balloons can only crash—
it took me fifteen years and five thousand
miles to watch nylon
candies en flambé
fall like parade castoffs
from the sky. In open fields, hands
sticky with crepe drippings, the lot of us
craned our necks and clutched our phones
waiting with hungry impatience
for the cascade of exquisite collisions.
– Jessica Mehta…
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