spring 2014
Table of Contents
Return to Home Page
Ariadne: the untangler
Fiona Mitchell
The Ford Takes Us to Wreck Beach
Melissa Sawatsky
Poem for Jeff
Poetry Shortage
Kayla Czaga
In the South Chilcotins
The Shell
Rob Taylor
The Last Year of His Life Barbara Brooks
Lost and Found Things I Noticed . . . Ricky Garni
We Are At Our Best
When the Rain Ceases Falling on Hanover
Richard-Yves Sitoski
The Day The Rain Stopped
Jane Mellor
I Invent a Character Before Lunch
Steve Klepetar
An Interview with a Caribou Richard Kelly Kemick
No Small Effort Joseph Dorazio
The Ford Takes Us to Wreck Beach
Sand and soil wedged in the seats, floor sticky
with spilt juice, wet grass, petals.
Our bumper sticker: One nuclear bomb
can ruin your whole day.
My mother’s beads, feathers,
flowered skirt—a fall of fabric
I reach for, hang onto
when her body strays.
The blanket of her
long, thick hair as she bathes,
the bathroom door open, always.
Down-sloping Douglas-firs slide into
bare-naked bodies that offer new shapes,
sprouts of hair, shades of skin.
My sister and I watch the leather droop
of breasts. Fleshy bells clang
between the legs of middle-aged men.
Under nylon, my torso is flat. A hint of
nipples, areola, and that part where
my hand goes into the shallows, fingering
for the deep end.