Monday July 31, 2017
Mona in the bath tub on her knees, scrubbing.
Finds a collection of black mildew. Furrows
her already furrowed brow. She curses his
name under her breath, Fucking Dennis and your fucking
lack of purpose in this life except to make me
fucking miserable. She hasn’t washed herself in
a week. She’s protesting. Maybe one of these
nights Dennis won’t try to stick his dick in
when she’s asleep on the couch. He tells her his
mother is going to inspect the bathroom and Mona
laughs as if she cares. But here she is, in the tub,
on her knees, bleeding for a man who does not bleed
for anyone but himself. And his mother.
Later, the kitchen tile is spotless and the food
is on the table. Dennis lies and says he’s
been working hard all day.
Drinking. Complaining. Leaves out the only
parts that are true.
His mother pulls a sprig of rosemary out of her mouth
and spits into the tomatoes. Mona’s lips turn upward.
Dennis throws a chicken leg at Mona’s face.
I told you my mother hates rosemary.
Thursday March 23, 2017
From an ad on the bus
Shaking your fist at the red sky
you are the underwater colours that I
don’t have the language to describe
You are swollen and indignant beyond
Roots reaching and curling into other
roots and fingers of butterfly wings
You are more tired than you’ve ever been
and yet you keep wailing
waiting for for someone to respond
When I was fourteen and riding
the bus home
a man pulled a knife on another man
because he was standing too close
I knew the world would break my heart
but I didn’t know the cruelty
Sixteen years and three broken hearts
later and I lean in to you and
put my hand on your quaking back
Saturday March 12, 2016
There’s a man staring at me from under a balaclava. I am scared but more than that- I am furious. I think if I show fear he wins. I am mad that he is winning. I am so mad that he is anything on this planet, but because I have to deal with this, I am angry that these stupid tactics are working on me. He is on my mind. At the front of it. I tell myself not to look up at him. I don’t want to meet the gaze of this ridiculous human being who’s growing harder in his pants at the thought of displacing me in my rightful position on this earth. I tell myself that if I don’t look at him, I will be the one in control. I am desperate for another human to get on this god forsaken bus so I can avoid eye contact with him or her as well so it doesn’t look like he’s getting to me, just seeming that I don’t look at anyone, that I don’t give a flying fuck about connection.
I am afraid.
And I hate him for that.
Sunday January 24, 2016
from the front of a flyer
I heard on the news today that two more kids were shot in their front yard.
They were selling lemonade.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to wake up every morning, drink my coffee, put on my suit, go into schools and teach young people how to measure the angles of an isosceles triangle, or that just because our country allows people to carry firearms that it doesn’t make it okay to use them, or that these two smiling babies were still warm from their mother’s womb, being watched from the kitchen window by that same love–looking down for just one second to pull a splinter out of her thumb.
I don’t know how any of us do it. Keep living on repeat like we don’t see what’s happening in our world, right outside our houses, hitting closer and closer to home each time. I don’t know how any of us leave the safety of our sheets each and every day and find a new version of brave to wear for the day.
Sunday October 4, 2015
from a tweet from the Green Party of Canada
Why did I sit in the window of this place? I’m not sure why you’re running. You aren’t wearing appropriate footwear. I watch you, hair flying, on the verge or tripping, drooling, crying? You’re coming towards me. You’re coming in. You open the door.
I’ve only had violent impulses twice in my life, not counting right now. Your desperation is thick like cream cheese icing. Don’t dip your finger in.
I pretend I don’t see you. You spot me and squint. I have exceptional peripheral vision. You pretend you don’t see me, too. I hadn’t seen Jake sitting in the back of the bar.
Sunday December 8, 2013
The back of the Himalayan Sea Salt
She is considered to be civil. And thoughtful. Smiley. Warm. Honest. Kind. But then she punched the one in the white coat, the one with the painted eyes, and all those things flew like geese, north.
“Let’s go outside…” She said. “Okay,” said the one in the white coat. Trepidatious. Excited. On the sidewalk, dotted with cigarette butts and old pieces of gum now black and completely flat, like coins, she smiles. She takes a deep breath. She winds up. She punches the one in the white coat right there, in that soft baby spot, the space between the cheek and jaw bone. Slip. Connect. Spit. Teeth. A mouthful of rose petal.
She walked to the park and puked. She wondered if she might get arrested.