“Woe to you… You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean.”—Matthew 23:27

VIRGIN TERRITORY

Bodyworker.
Your body, not mine.
My body’s slotted
into the designated white room,
your chosen present,
gift-wrapped
with the glossy illusion of consent.

My mind is aswarm
with instructions
it cannot comprehend.
My mind cannot be present.
I must disassociate
as I apply pressure,
knead tissue.

Anxious supplicant of flesh,
my strong, delicate hands—
hot, smooth stones
I weigh like options—
can only distract you
from the grim futility
of your quest.

Harem seeker,
curator of a cornucopia
of delights,
practiced unmaker of girls
you render nameless,
conceal in your private zoo
for a few hundred dollars.

Host with the most dirt
hopes our nubile flesh
will replenish his rotting mass,
return the virtue he squandered,
restore the purity he demands
by extracting ours.

I work hard to indulge,
to feed your hunger
for virgin territory.

Neither daughter nor lover nor sister—
not even your possession—
I am your altar,
your instrument,
burst and conveniently hushed.

Insatiate.
Endless rub downs
cannot soothe that muscle,
relieve that itch,
curb that craving.

Hey Goliath—
what bible story
do you tell yourself at night?

SPANGLED NATION SPEWING

From Vancouver’s waterfront
to Windsor’s Ambassador Bridge,
border cities must bear our boisterous,
swaggering neighbour’s weight—
as they snarl and skid into us
through gritted fences.

There have been glimmerings
into the mood of the nation—
as when a hoodie becomes a hood,
a mask, camouflage,
a phone, a concealed weapon,
youth perceived as threats,
and hence, targets.

Along with all the other targets,
targeted for daring to deviate
from ‘the norm,’
the almighty, righteous,
white man’s ordained normal.

As when the spangled nation
salivates or spews,
with nothing in between—
might abused, might enough

to drag us along
via rousing dogmata,
endless expansionism
and drone-striking jingoism,

as the coastline burns,
gray whale blubber boils,
pretzel-stuffed crows stagger
and eagles, lungs tarred, plummet.

Dazzled into deference too long,
our messages mauled mid-delivery,
we no longer hold our tongues.

We unmask, unsheathe,
sever your bomb-lit screeds,
hack out truth
from the wreckage.

Found my old business card in the archive. This was a great gig — and opportunity! Publisher Jay Levin encouraged me to write reviews and the occasional article for the paper.

A New York City transplant, Jay was a cool cat. I used to tease him about the pile of supplements on his desk — but hey, they must be working, because he’s still around.

He employed a stable of artist-and-musician freaks and, as a fellow literature aficionado, assigned me to curate the Poetry Corner. Learn by doing. Better than art school or university — which I had dropped out of in order to run away and join the punk rock circus.

The most valuable lesson? Having a deadline meant I could rise to the occasion — past my doubts, fears, and insecurities — and produce copy. I didn’t have to wait for the muse.

I suppose it’s called discipline. Not that I’m all that disciplined — I’ve never planned anything in my life, let alone a “career path” — but I have managed to accomplish some writing, including songs, poetry, fiction and non.

I still need to heed the call of the Emerald Isle, but I feel like I’ve been to Belfast through Irish rap band Kneecap. They indulge both my Irish and punk rock roots with their fierce political righteousness and DIY ingenuity. I’ve been blasting their anthems, and yesterday I took in their film — which I enjoyed so much I even reviewed it.

WHY KNEECAP HIT ME HARD
As much craic as this was, Kneecap is no mere frolic, no Beatles-style romp, no throwaway music vehicle. It’s a serious, moving film with a sharp screenplay, endearing characters, and strong performances. I can see why it won the Audience Choice Award at Sundance. At times it felt almost documentary-like — I learned as much about Belfast, Northern Ireland’s culture, and the fight for the Irish language as I did about the band. An incredible story, brilliantly adapted for the screen. Highly recommended.

Sorry for the radio silence, my pretties—
Big news! Guess who’s getting published again? I’ve spent most of this year deep in the writing cave, and it looks like the work is paying off. I’m absolutely thrilled to announce that my latest poetry collection, Cariboo Ashes, has found a publishing home with Anvil Press!

This is especially meaningful to me, as Anvil published my very first book about a hundred years ago and they remain one of the finest small presses in Canada. I couldn’t ask for a better place for this collection to land.

More updates soon—promise.

Happy Mother’s Day. I don’t have many photos of my mother—she was shy about cameras, always insecure and self-conscious. Corona. That’s her in the middle. I wonder what I’m holding… a candle? A wand? It was taken in either Charleswood or Transcona, Manitoba—we moved a lot. Back when coffee tables were laden with ashtrays and doilies. We were dressed for church, my sister’s christening.

I always feel conflicted about this day. I loved my mother, of course—she’s the only mother I’ll ever have—but she was not easy to love. Her childhood was traumatic, and that pain twisted her. My sisters and I survived the generational abuse, just as she had. But her deepest betrayal was the lifelong lie about my paternity. That deception cost me a relationship with a good father I would have loved—one who would have loved me back. Protected me. I’ve written about it here before.

Maybe that’s why I waited so long to become a mother myself. Life is complicated. But I’m here now, blessed to be a mom, and the experience has provided something rare: perspective and grace.

…and saviour. It preserves my sanity, I swear. This is one of the poems  from my forthcoming collection, working title, Cariboo Ashes. I’ve been working hard on revisions and soon will send the manuscript to editor extraordinaire Catherine Owen to help prepare it for publication.

CEDAR SHADOWS

Whispers of us
linger in the ether—
silence is an answer,
and I am listening.

With all that is no more,
and all that waits to be,
leaning into your absence
elicits song but no reply.

How present you are in the hollow
of my palm, in the turquoise it cradles,
a futile talisman to bridge the chasm,
to resurrect the calm before our quarrels.

Starved of forests, lacking in trees,
in branches where secrets unfold,
bereft of mountains,
we ceased climbing, ceased soaring.

We remained grounded
within the confines of four walls—
our love gasped for light,
reached for expanses it never found.

Through a breach
I glimpse the cedar’s grandeur,
its tremendous shadow cast long,
a tender embrace that allows
my love for you, your love for me.