spring 2014
Table of Contents
Return to Home Page
We Are At Our Best
When the Rain Ceases Falling on Hanover
Richard-Yves Sitoski
Ariadne: the untangler
Fiona Mitchell
An Interview with a Caribou Richard Kelly Kemick
In the South Chilcotins
The Shell
Rob Taylor
Poem for Jeff
Poetry Shortage
Kayla Czaga
The Ford Takes Us to Wreck Beach
Melissa Sawatsky
No Small Effort Joseph Dorazio
The Day The Rain Stopped
Jane Mellor
Lost and Found Things I Noticed . . . Ricky Garni
I Invent a Character Before Lunch
Steve Klepetar
The Last Year of His Life Barbara Brooks
Poem for Jeff
The Korean shopkeepers are fucked. The students reading
by the dim light of their textbooks are fucked. The couple
fucking on a kitchen table in a loft on 3rd Avenue is fucked.
The hipsters, plastered in wallpaper pants, blazing ambient
noises through hamburger headphones are fucked. Fucked
are the CEOs and the graceful lines of women buying oranges
in December. The senior citizens shivering in complexes.
The fucked mutter slender apologies to each other—I am sorry
your loved ones perished in a fire, that life has fucked you
with such regularity, there are no jobs or cities safely to live
in, I get it, Matthew Arnold’s ignorant armies skirmish on,
making old the new year, again. The lady with bolts of hair
selling painted spoons down by the harbour is fucked blatantly
while others are fucked subtly, gradually over time, eroded
with great misguidedly fucked love and passivity, each howling
out a verse of the failing song of the fucked, and I know it
does not undo the fucking, but it’s beautiful, sounding out over
the ocean, startling the exquisitely fucked heron into flight.