it’s been a month. a long, empty month. on the personal side of things it’s been busy: i got engaged, i’m finding myself at times overwhelmed (in a good way) at work, i’ve been planning the wedding and taking trips out of town, i tried to quit smoking (i didn’t succeed, so don’t ask).

& i’m writing, only i’m not writing poetry.

it’s been empty because of what happens between all the busy, the evenings ahead of me dotted with nothing. no painting my nails, no doing my laundry, no cleaning my house. getting the christmas decorations up was impressive, i guess, but everything else feels so stagnant.

i keep waiting for the chance to make it better. un-erase it, fill the colour back in. in the meantime i’m lonely, and feeling detached from the people i love. i want a room with everyone in it, where no one can hear a word except for exactly what’s meant for them but can’t seem to be said.

Photo 2014-11-30, 1 05 26 PM

in the spirit of lists, reserved so often for february, i have written a list for december.

1 melting snow
2 my breath on the glass, too early in fall
3 crumpled cigarette packs in the backseats of cars; a bottle of juice
4 making (difficult) decisions
5 the tour, still the tour, but what do i say
6 apologizing
7 asking for favours
8 hands inside sleeves, of sweaters, sweaters like blankets, blankets like old conversations with friends, friends like a memory, a memory of hands inside sleeves of sweaters
9 vintage books, lace, ribbon, high heeled shoes
10 ohhh chainsmoking, a habit, old habits
11 not forgetting, despite lack of words

the open mic this month was particularly good. the people i know are particularly good. they aren’t all here and i find i notice that fragmentation more and more as winter edges closer, but they are particularly good. i will never not notice.


done; you
built a stage not truly for me

and told me: it’s just
the beginning.

i learned to paint, create
a backdrop to your
new story,

memorized how
to forget what we’d written, or

whole hands intertwined. easier
to touch your skin than tell
you, not the truth,
but any words
at all

it’s not over
until we decide
there is nothing to say

war memorial.

clockas much as i try not to react to things like this, personally, especially in writing, i have to say that it isn’t easy for me, personally, (i mean very personally & little else right now) to see the war memorial blocked off with caution/crime scene tape.

i had places in hamilton, before i left, unique & special places that even after they stopped being unique and special i would still return to when i wanted to write, or be alone. city hall, the rooftop of jackson square, gore park, TH&B, victoria park, and beneath the bridges of the QEW. and i had them in dundas too: the carnegie gallery rooftop, of course, the driving park, grove cemetery, the rope swing (sounds so adorable now, and small-townish), the creek.

i feel this connection right now to hamilton that i don’t want to feel but it’s glaringly there: the wreaths & flowers piling at the armoury on james street, the tributes from friends who knew him personally, the hamilton websites & news i follow now talking about my city, my war memorial, my streets. i love feeling connected to my hometown for its places and its people, but i don’t right now.

in ottawa i’ve been lucky enough to pick new places just for myself, that are unique & special, where i can write or be alone. the canal, obviously, the bank street bridge, the underpass, confederation park, never parliament (boring!), the war memorial. these places are more than just places to be alone to think or write: they’re mixed up for me in my memories, the days, nights, walks, conversations, coffees, kisses, confessions, lies, truths, friendships, drunken stumbles home that make up my actually personal life.

also, and this is even more personal, but my birthday being on remembrance day has allowed me (since being in ottawa) to take the day off & visit the war museum, the memorial, and spend some time, reflect on it personally, reflect on it not-personally. so seeing it blocked off is strange. i wish this didn’t sound so selfish, it’s just hard for me to not connect personally to things; it doesn’t mean i’m ignoring the rest of it.

“the nice thing about the war
memorial is that
there are no voices, you
can’t hear a word”

(august 2011)



if there were a choice i’d be scarred
and unpretty, you could
not hold it against me that i
wear mascara

we broke it off on the porch in
mid-august, over raccoon eyes, my
pigtails, that i’d been drinking beer
with my friends,
my oversized sweatshirt,
my lack of a bra

you smudge eyeliner off with the
back of your hand, play
finders keepers with
me even

i guess i am smaller than
you are in more ways than one