“joke poem about a black bear” by Sasha at her desk


Tuesday January 31, 2017
3:08pm
5 minutes
Upstream
Mary Oliver


‘It’s sunny today,
so that’s something’
Adam says, stroking his beard
as if he might be a wizard.

‘Yes. It is something,” I
respond, furrowing my eyebrows,
lifting my face
towards the sky.

Adam buys me an orange
from Florida and I wonder
about the politics of the
farmer, their tan lines,
their birth order.

Sitting by the ocean
at sunset, the buzz of
Granville Market behind
us, seagulls begging for
scraps of hotdogs from
children dressed in sweaters.

Sometimes
I long for a simpler time
when my heart didn’t live
in my throat.

“She sees light and shapes” by Sasha on her couch


Monday January 30, 2017
9:21pm
5 minutes
From a text

When I was a child, living in a big house on a tree lined street with a yellow door, I would build tiny worlds out of branches, moss, a shell from a visit to Florida. I saw things differently then, in different colours, with different textures. I didn’t know fatigue. I knew heartbreak.

When I had friends over – Sarah, Katie, Charlotte, – I invited them into the worlds. Sometimes someone brought a pinecone or a piece of string. Before bed, after brushing my teeth, washing my face and saying goodnight to my mother, I would take the tiny world apart, bit by bit.