spring 2014
Table of Contents
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We Are At Our Best
When the Rain Ceases Falling on Hanover
Richard-Yves Sitoski
In the South Chilcotins
The Shell
Rob Taylor
No Small Effort Joseph Dorazio
Ariadne: the untangler
Fiona Mitchell
I Invent a Character Before Lunch
Steve Klepetar
Lost and Found Things I Noticed . . . Ricky Garni
Poem for Jeff
Poetry Shortage
Kayla Czaga
The Day The Rain Stopped
Jane Mellor
The Ford Takes Us to Wreck Beach
Melissa Sawatsky
An Interview with a Caribou Richard Kelly Kemick
The Last Year of His Life Barbara Brooks
When the Rain Ceases Falling on Hanover
you cover the spackle and step outside
to consider your middle and index fingers
this is not a farm house
the lath and plaster are gone
the holes in the wall are not the holes she made
the ash on the recliner is not the original ash
and the tear in the storm door is not the one
left by the frantic starling
as she stood laughing on the rag rug
picking her teeth with a matchbook
nor should your hands be yellowed like the walls
but you rolled your own since childhood
first for her and then yourself
till the day she went down in a cloudburst
and her last words became a wisp
rising from a cigarette rolled in newsprint
smouldering in her fist deliberately
the way retreating water frees a stone