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.

a place.

napowrimo #1

early in the crisp forgotten winter,
our morning, you hissed, like
slushing snow on tires in my ear

our bed, our pillows oxymorons
for a place we wish we were
but cannot be,
a place we dodge by
blaming lingered hours,
daylight saving, or the weather

the streets are no place for
a failing spring, but crisp and
bedding is
a spring we’ve yet to see


as grateful as i am that i have not
received a paper cut in these two
years, that
cautionary slice, i am that hockey
season’s over, and with it

that pale memory of yellow living
rooms, the walls the shade of
bags in hospitals, of trails left
by dying snails
and grey shadows of the sounds
of one last game on the TV cast into your eyes,

your eyes i couldn’t see through my
closed eyelids, your eyes i felt
once in a while, while we hid
that we were
holding hands beneath my sweater.
you trailed me home and kissed my

the part of me already dead.


you’re so long and dry, impatient. six
month stutter i outlined
and traced

and he erased, and
every time we’ve turned our
backs we have exposed
another white lace silhouette.

there is no one to tell.
he has gone, with promises of
ice skates, fingers linked as
they collapse on couches, under
pillows, the ceilings of dead
living rooms with walls whose
paint is chipped and split;
there is no wait.

the calendar is pencil, gaps
forged by passing
time and wrists.

more chairs.

well it finally happened
and i live alone.

it took me a year but it happened. just me, and gunther of course. and king julien & mort, who survived yet another move and who have been noticeably upset with me ever since. i’m giving them some time to cool off.

i keep hearing that things will get better, that i’ll have a fresh start. i’ve heard it so many times and fallen for the promise so many times that i have nearly abandoned all hope. i’ve never really been much of a “hopeful” girl anyway, but i am easily tricked. friends tricked me, boys tricked me. and my own blind faith in myself and in others tricked me, too.

so here i am.
alone, where i should have been a year ago. what i wanted so badly last february. but i didn’t really want it, not yet, not then. because i tried for something else when i should not have. and that’s that. i chose to do it, somewhere. somehow i made decisions.

so whatever. it’s not like i actually give a fuck, obviously, about anything, or about tricks or those boys or those friends or a hat or etymology or deconstruction or getting thrown under the bus. because to care now i’d have to have cared then. and they’d be kidding themselves if they even briefly thought i did. which they know as well as i do.

i’m close,
to giving up. but not quite there. i have no hope, maybe, but it isn’t hope i need. it all works out, it’s all good, whatever. hakuna matata, life goes on. i’m all right. i’m always all right. not that anyone asked.

but then
they cared for me about as much
as i cared for them.


dear february.

dear february,

i’m sorry for all the bad things i said to you and about you and behind your back. you are cold and cruel, but you are lovely also. you didn’t hurt me; i hurt myself & tried to bring you with me.

you did not lie to me any more times than i lied to you or to myself. i was wrong. i am aware that i could have been different, if not for myself then for you, because you could not have been different.

you lose a day for three years out of four. you are unpredictable and dark, you are not tall. you are unfriendly. your shoes are thinning at the soles. denim shows the fat your legs are lacking. i could not love a thing about you, except that you exist. i still do. as you fade into the melting spring i will end up lonely and you will be a memory.

of walking in our winter clothes, of sunshine on cement. old coffee in a paper cup. i’m so much more than fine with that.

the memories are worth it and
i’m sorry. you are good.


a stampede broke
the glasses we used for
our seeing and drinking,
and i was already drunk:

my heart bled for a year.
on the arm of my couch
like it hadn’t

your tongue melted mine
with the lights from the streets,
sirens for earliest dawn

for me
you glue a piece,
one at a time, but glue is cheap
(and i’m a liar).