day 17she dreams of the pink swing set under a canopy of leaves, shoes brushing colours of autumnof mud slicked steps, rusted spoons and clear plastic forks turned opaque from grimy handsof lard-filled jars and broken glass, glittering teeth hidden beneath tree shadowsof scratchy hay poking ankles and, below, sharp metal just peeking through faded itchy yellow:watching, waiting.
you don't sit beside me in class anymoreyou look like oversized sweaters waiting for mr darcy vapid vanilla shows up late toclass with coffee cheeks flushed from cold(but there's more than meets the eye. i like the flush of your cheeks and last week i wondered if you bite lips or lick them; if you'd change my mind on holding hands)gone is your floral perfume soft breathing arm brushing mine proximity pulsing legs crossing blurry profile in peripheral(but now i almost like it better this way. it's easier to follow concentration as it moves along your features and i have always been more comfortable with distance anyway)
sharp nailsthere is a pattern of veins on my right thigh that looks like the long, blue bones of a handsometimes these thin, spindly fingers crawl up my veins and arteries to clasp around my heart, tug on the back of my eyes, dotting and blacking my visionthey scrape the nervous system and i think i used to pray to settle the sickness
from 3429 ft.two years ago from paris, saskatoon looked like a small solar system, hazy with rain and cold. three days ago from toronto, it is midday and foggy, a thick blanket of grey masking tiny grey buildings cut by a tiny grey river. but the feeling is the same and i want to reach across the aisle to hold my sister's hand – much the same as two years ago, russell reaching for my hand, any hand, two changed souls unprepared to face the sameness of home.but the feeling is not the same. we are not two changed souls: we are just happy ones, 'satisfied with the trip' ones, and i do not hold hands when i am happy.
may 3i press tissue paper to the skin above my ankle, apply pressure, breathe.try not to think about the red and searing and the itch in my hand.-i decide i want to cover my body in ink, beautiful and expensive.-my grandmother asks me why i want a tattoo.i tell her, "i think they're beautiful."-five years of thinking pass.birds fly across my wrist and i trap them midflight.beautiful and expensive.
reverberationshey skinny boy, you walk like you know where you're goingand when you kiss me, i don't know what to say ( and it sort of reverberates between us, doesn't it? )
parenting 101when our children wake up screaming in the middle of the nightor crawl into our beds, we have a list of reassurances:"it was just a nightmare" and "it was just the shadows" and "it was just your imagination"until they, too, are desensitized and locked in a cage,condition themselves to be blind and sane like the rest of us
hide and seeka shadow lives underneath my bed. when it sees a bare foot or hand dangling over the edge, it reaches out, torn between hunger and companionship
a romantic dinnerJust relax tonight, I've cooked you a scrumptious dish.Scooped out of the aquarium, it's your favourite goldfish!
a romantic boat rideOne day, just you and me, we'll go sailing.I'll push you over the edge, and you'll go flailing.
the hallway closet door sonnetThe time I forgot to close the closet door after I grabbed a towel and it haunted me the rest of the weekend while I waited for someone to come home and close it for me because I'm a wimp.Something hides past the open hallway door.Twisting air. A live shadow, bloodshot eyes,sharp fingernails curled behind wallpaper.Green stench; plaque below gums, too many teeththat click. A white face, dark gaping holes wherefear sits in the curve of eye sockets. Mist,aura, presence, space, a rotting eyeballhanging by the nerve caught in a hinge. Itcould be anything, it could be real. Manin a mask, guts on his shirt, meal in hand.
the lonely sea monsterThings hadn't been the same since Marty kicked the can. Marty, an old manatee that liked to trick sailors into believing he was a beautiful stranded woman singing sad songs, had just dropped dead one day. They said that he choked on a fish bone, but Kassie was sure it had been the humans.
runawaythe trees surround and scratch youpoke into the whites of your eyessuspicious and accusingwill you be the next to use our flesh as kindling?are you the girl who peeled the thin skin from the white birch?
the last unicorni like zebras for their stripes,and birds for their wings; wolves for their mournful howls and underwater creatures for their alien environment—most of all, i like unicornsthey aren't real but i pretend they are,seven years old and wishing on a saltyfolded chip at daycare that i might finally chance across one in the woods at grandma's farm,with a pink or purple mane and eyes that smile, "yes, i am real outside of stories and imagination and that really long movie with the cheesy soundtrack"
coming to termsThe first summer:I felt bad for the bees that got squished under the edges of the boxes and went through the extractor; that came through the tanks floating to the top of the barrels. I saw massacre in the bottom of the capper, layers of wax and wings.I scraped frames of drone bitterly, pacifying my uneasy conscience by turning down Grandma's offer of a scoop of honey in my tea on the weekends.Last summer:I continued to spare as many tiny lives as I could but discovered that I set boxes down on angry little bees without a twinge of remorse, perhaps in revenge for stinging me when I was just standing off to the si
claustrophobiaThe bee suit is sticky and confining, white and soaked through with honey and dirt and bee poop. It is a couple sizes too large but it is too small and shrinks around my limbs like plastic wrap.The gloves are soft and flexible when new, but after a week's work turn hard and crusty; turn my hands big and clumsy; collect sweat and crawl up my arms with a possessive grip that tightens just below my elbow.The veil is a heavy screen that leans too close to my face, sneers and throws stray pieces of hair into my eyes. It pulls the collar of my suit even closer to my neck and, I'm positive, tries to suffocate me.In the truck,
moving the playhouseI pressed my hands into the cool cement.The sets of hand prints went biggest to smallest, followinga simple date so we would always remember that a family built this pond in 2001.-The bricks of the pond lay in a corner behind the shed, the algae-infested water poured outwhere the sandbox used to be. The bobcat's big wheels crack the concrete but we're lucky; the hand prints are untouched, even the biggest set.
Memoirs of a Grade 4 Harry Potter FanHarry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was released in theatres during my fourth year of elementary school. Our teacher was a Potterhead himself, and he read the book to our class during any spare time he could monopolize. He brought documentaries for us to watch; the majority of my class groaned and rolled their eyes when he tried to share his love for the series with us, but there were two of us who were beside ourselves the entire time.My best friend, Sheila, had a magazine that came out just before the movie's premiere. It featured biographies of cast members and promotional pictures. The pages were already worn and faded in the short
so here's the thing:i feel like a tired little skeleton wearing the same shirt 1, 2, 3 days in a row, knuckles drumming along the knobs of my spine and fingers digging in be twe en the rib bones that flash in the sun and create shadows on my skinand listen, everybody wants to be skinny but i want to sleep and it's funny, i don't want my bones to skick out at odd angles but my stomach
procrastinationit's harder than before to read one sentence after the other (i swearit used to be effortless) to finish the page without stretching my legs and taking my distending, distracted mind for a walk; it is still hard as ever to pull my tired body from bed, the thick baton blanket reluctant to ease its grip on my ankles
bright eyesThere are too many people on the elevator.I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, detach, displace, I am laying on the floor of my room, my arms and legs stretched out to each wall, the room to myself, big, empty. Breathe in, out.It works for a moment, until someone steps on my foot and another person is taking a photo. Our little group sandwiches together in the corner, bodies closer than before, and I look at the camera, smile. This is the second lift of the night. There are too many people on the elevators and I would have preferred to take the stairs.The door opens and we file out. Sean catches my eye and we grin at each o
the rock gardenMy mother brought black, oddly shaped rocks back from Mexico, hiding them with seashells and coconuts in her socks and shirts. I haven't seen the rocks from California, but I'm sure they're somewhere in the garage.We could never complete a full hike, or even a simple walk around town, without stopping to crouch down and examine some glittering or prettily coloured rock that had caught Mom's eye. I used to roll my eyes and cross my arms, as though I could shrink into myself.It was embarrassing, this rock collecting.We would bring pails home from Fairmont, and I would complain that the rocks at my feet would put too much weight on the tir
day one, part threei think your eyes are pretty and your smile is pretty and your hair is pretty and your legs shot heat down my spine.but you're not that pretty up close – you wear your eyeliner like the thick outline of bad clipart and when your legs aren't moving, i forget who you are. the girl beside you toys with the ends of her hair and her thighs are tanned and bare just like yours. her voice is syrup, sugar content too high, and it's all i can do to keep my mouth upturned, to partake in the pleasantries of small talk.you are just another girl with hair extensions and jeans cut at the pockets. when you speak, it is hard to hear beyond the cotton
day one, part oneyour voice grates on my nerves like the old dependable classics,like nails screeching down a chalkboard and utensils scraping across a plateit grates like:stepping in dog shit while looking for a towel,a pickaxe lifting the back of my skull,coconut shavings in desert;like that feeling of moss growing on the back of my teeth andthe breakdown of language and i can't remember words or letters or ...
Sta.sh
