spring 2014
Table of Contents
Return to Home PagePolishing d.n. simmers
I Invent a Character Before Lunch
Steve Klepetar
No Small Effort Joseph Dorazio
The Ford Takes Us to Wreck Beach
Melissa Sawatsky
In the South Chilcotins
The Shell
Rob Taylor
The Last Year of His Life Barbara Brooks
Lost and Found Things I Noticed . . . Ricky Garni
The Day The Rain Stopped
Jane Mellor
An Interview with a Caribou Richard Kelly Kemick
Ariadne: the untangler
Fiona Mitchell
We Are At Our Best
When the Rain Ceases Falling on Hanover
Richard-Yves Sitoski
Poem for Jeff
Poetry Shortage
Kayla Czaga
Polishing
“The sun polishes the
grey wooden steps.”
— Stephen Berg
Mum sits on them. From another time. The current one
has no steps. But the invisible, where the
mind re-creates, they are there
Grey. Full of concrete and wood. She waits.
For us. To come home.
Most of the older ones are there. I will be
the last, to arrive. When that is
only the black dogs and the smiling man with silver
hair who checks his schedule, knows.
He just smiles.
So in a summer dress she sits and talks to her mum
and dad and my brother and our dog who licks
her hand
as days of summer come by.
The darkness before first light is deep in mist.
Feet will come up. Open the
front gate.
She will wave then. All the others
will be happy. As they wait for me, there.