(Puerto Vallarta - Febrero 2023)
 
the sun slips demented
            through palapa fringe
silhouettes roll past
            a brimmed hat wags its tail
 
on an ample belly
            shriveled breasts keep pace
a vendor hoists his tree
            of painted clacking ducks
 
a backwards ball cap
            frees long straight hair
from an ancient hand dangles
            a ten-string in anticipation
 
father and son
            mother trails behind 
a muscle struts
            his tanned naked chest
 
two joggers push past
            a weary hawker
who holds high a wooden board
            of silver Spanish medallions
 
two fisherman
            share a bent pole
with a sun now finished with us
            at thirty-one seconds past seven
 
 

Originally published in The New Quarterly, issue 162, Spring 2022, p. 55.
 
            my father, magpie
cunning in soft-bodied collusion
            stark black, abysmal white
no room for grey
           
            my mother, peacock
iridescent breast poised
            for self-inflicted arrow
feathers shuddering colours
           
            and I, cardinal
hidden in hedgerows
            with blackened mouth
 crest rising at first sign of danger

If you could see inside
your words would not be those words.
Micro jolts, friendly comments/
“You seem back to normal”
normal doesn’t live here
anymore.
Those words slipping/
well intentioned tongues
wake up sad reminders
of what was, before
that day.
Memories of blackness
babies, futures flash by
SMASH!
If you could see inside
the injuries would tell their story
ragged bloody knuckles
crawling, crawling …
out of this pit.
In that place, loss lives  
what was - isn’t  
like vapour
Going, going – gone.
You don’t know - can’t know
how it feels to be stripped
down to your naked core.
Something new awaits… you say
empty enthusiasm for the one /
the one who waits
for a future not yet seen.
But you would know
If you looked inside.
 
 
 

dead cells imprinted with living memory
you’ll never forget the day they overcame
your youth and cut your hair
now, you grow and grow, modern Rapunzel
rewriting trauma, one strand at a time
you let down your hair
maybe one day your tears will help them see
or maybe not

That it takes less than 10 minutes to get to the ferry
but that doesn’t mean you’ll get on.
I don’t.
 
There is a one hour and 20-minute wait between ferries.
 
That it is best to sit in the front passenger seat
of my car
in the rain
    there’s more room to knit there.
 
That eating a can of kippered fish in a closed car in the rain is not a good idea.
 
That the kids who sit across from me
on the ferry
are Willow and Jake
Willow is five and Jake is seven.
I know this because they tell me.
 
That the ferry takes 30 minutes to cross Kootenay Lake.
 
That Jakes’s soccer jersey has the number 7 on the back
Jake’s soccer team had to play in the rain
and they lost
to kids who were younger than them.
 
That Willow had a seed wart removed from her foot in Nelson
and that it didn’t really hurt much.
 
They had cokes while they were in town
and Willow got a new dress
and Jake got new soccer shoes that his coach says will help him score a goal.
 
That their mother died in Calgary three years ago
maybe it was four.
 
That Willow is learning to knit a scarf that is turquoise
and her grandmother is going to knit her a hat to match
maybe gloves and pants too.
 
That the car smells even more like fish when I get back in.

Uninvited the raucous crowd gathers,
Pouring in to deafening clarions
Diesel filling the air, fireworks the night
And they stay, they occupy,
Growing ever bolder in their crusade.

Evil whispers along Wellington,
Anarchy dances on hallowed ground
A bronzed Terry sheds a tear
For an upended flag turned red with anger.
False sirens of freedom,
While a digital universe cheers them on.

Democracy tested, delayed and finally,
A dark shadow confronted
Cloaked in hijacked words and scripture.
Men with black helmets, zip ties and truncheons
Moving the line as wind blows, snow falls.
Play by play from strolling parka-clad reporters
Until, like some Allied liberation,
The downtown is cleared.
​
Leaving a national wound, soon a scar, and
Seared images of hot tubs and burn barrels,
Jailers and horses, kids and pig roasts.
And in the chambers of the Nation,
Political points are scored and tallied,
While Justice grabs a mop and pail.

The family unit once Pangea
now split and fragmented into pieces
separate
but still made of the same stuff.
 
Star matter. All of us matter.
Everything does
as much as it doesn’t.
 
A blade of grass—the first paper cut,
the wise ancient sequoia,
an Osprey and his writhing dinner,
furry tarantula legs, all too-many of them.
 
Shells like ours, only on lease,
slowly rent asunder by the passing of time.
The freight train rumbles on by
etching train tracks onto faces.
 
Constellations are contracts--
sign on the dotted line.
 
Continental breakfast drifting into lunch.
The tectonic integrity of this old house
creaks and sways under interrogation
by the wailing winter wind
 
maintaining the ground its held for decades.
The cosmic scale blinks,
wipes a crumb of sleep from its eye,
and the old house collapses
along with everything else,
 
back into the stars.

​My eyes, a set of blinds
Shielding ancient wounds
My mouth
Sharp and tight, deep lines
Years of holding back
Of gritted teeth
 
Old, yes I’m old now
Not stylish
Black stretch pants
Old comfy shoes
shapeless t-shirt
No jewellery for me
No makeup
 
Off putting, social skills
Lacking finesse
afraid of children
They tend not to like me
 
Distress at being seen
Overweight again and still
noticing dismissive eye slips
from strangers
reflecting distasteful visage
 
And yet, I am
inquisitive, tenacious,
resourceful, kind, tolerant
while holding a smoldering rage
at injustice
 
yes, Here ...I am
wholly filled with strength
with compassion
with creativity
with courage
 
I am an artist
being seen in the world
I am an author,
a creator of
 meaning
I have a voice
Yes, I have a voice
I have a STRONG voice!