spring 2014
Table of Contents
Return to Home PageThe Last Year of His Life Barbara Brooks
In the South Chilcotins
The Shell
Rob Taylor
Lost and Found Things I Noticed . . . Ricky Garni
Poem for Jeff
Poetry Shortage
Kayla Czaga
The Day The Rain Stopped
Jane Mellor
I Invent a Character Before Lunch
Steve Klepetar
The Ford Takes Us to Wreck Beach
Melissa Sawatsky
We Are At Our Best
When the Rain Ceases Falling on Hanover
Richard-Yves Sitoski
No Small Effort Joseph Dorazio
An Interview with a Caribou Richard Kelly Kemick
Ariadne: the untangler
Fiona Mitchell
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.