“After the Flood” by Sasha at the kitchen table

Sunday September 17, 2017
9:39pm
5 minutes
The cover of NOW Magazine

By now it’s all happened. By now your hair has dried even though the city is broken and bandaged. By now you have socks. It’s funny when people call you a name that I don’t know. It smells like seaweed and rain. Today will be known as The Day After The Flood.

When we roast marshmallows and eat the sticky bits slowly pulling them between our fingers, sixteen years from now, you’ll look at me sideways and say, “I thought you were going to drown.”

“When there’s peace, it’s too vague” by Sasha on her living room floor


Tuesday August 8, 2017
9:46pm
5 minutes
The Balcony
Jean Genet


I want to impress you
I don’t want you to see my doing it
When there’s peace it’s too vague it’s too far away
Barcelona from Saskatoon
Yellowknife from Johannesburg
I wonder what you’re wearing now that you live south of
the Equator
I wonder if you still wear those aviators
cowboy boots
ripped jeans
I wonder if you’re still carving soap stone into mermaids
Catching babies as a hobby
Spinning wool
I want to impress you
even when you’re not here
even when we haven’t spoken in twelve years
my body floods

“Hearing John Malkovitch” by Sasha at her desk


Saturday, June 1, 2013
11:53am
5 minutes
From the ARTS Section of the Globe and Mail
Saturday May 25th edition


I didn’t mean to write a manifesto but when I sat down I felt a flood like the one on the news coming through my fingertips, the one where people have to hold onto trees or else they will be swept away. You called, “What the heck is going on in there?” from the garage. You could hear me pounding on the computer keyboard, the flood getting deeper and heavier and more alive. “MANIFESTO!” I called back, and my voice broke, like I probably would cry but I didn’t want to alarm you and have you come back into the house, so then I called, “I’m totally okay!” You were carving sculptures of African animals out of soapstone. You worked from four in the morning until noon, from which point you listened to records and radio shows, and canned seasonal fruits and vegetables. I had never loved you more. This manifesto, however, only concerned me. It had nothing to do with you at all. It was completely and utterly my own. When you love someone deeply and unconditionally, it’s easy to feel that every that has to do with you has to do with them, too. That is not the case. This manifesto was as private as biting your own toenails, or popping an ingrown hair/pimple on your bikini line, or eating a half pint of salted caramel gelato in the nude while watching re-runs of 90210.