The Double Lamp of Solitude
By Poetry Issue 110
Occasionally, she would indulge / in controlled acts of remembrance, / letting the distant world intrude. / She found this sometimes helpful / to her investigations, but a little / went a long way.
Read MoreThe Lamp of Art
By Poetry Issue 110
Beginning and beginning again, / the eye opens to see the border / of its galaxy and finds there a snake.
Read MoreTo the Ram’s Horn I Cannot Sound
By Poetry Issue 110
The sound I imagine / you make has to / hold me and wake / me to its own kind / of internal return.
Read MoreVessel
By Poetry Issue 110
But innocence / / Is not responsibility / cleansed by command / And water, lifted, can but flee / the trembling hand.
Read MorePlague Psalm 90
By Poetry Issue 110
A psalm for the plague year by Philip Metres: “Loss, you have been our regent, / Refusing the refugees / you sent. / / Truly we’re boxed in an annex / Of the mansion / of your text.”
Read MoreReunion
By Poetry Issue 110
I felt / the soil-dark downward / proof of being, the earth / an appetite, an almost-love, the air / a meeting ground, / the whole of seeing / seeable
Read MoreFolded and faulted, I swear I’ll keep it, a sundog translucence inside my fear of death
By Poetry Mitchell Prize 2021
N 58° 10.684’ W 125° 45.021’ Muskwa Kechika, Homelands of the Kaska Dene, Treaty 8 and Tsay Keh Nations First snow briefly on the backs of moving animals in the high altitudes. At the lake’s edge I’m waiting for the hour when the pain makes sense. The loon’s empty dance hall levitates. Several unproven…
Read MoreDigging
By Poetry Mitchell Prize 2021
i ———Where did it come from, this call ———to the interior— you will tree plant in BC forests, four hour by chopper from Prince George. The cork boots, belt and shovel bandanas and bungees, tin stove and tarp all packed, the many days drive in an ancient van sealed with shiny hope and duct tape.…
Read MoreQuinn Abbey, Ireland
By Poetry Mitchell Prize 2021
I remember the clouds yesterday— cow-belly low and heavy, pregnant with Irish rain— the way they hugged Quinn Abbey. clouds the colour of stones, shale grey and lichen-shadowed. ———Masses lighter than the ones on that first ———chemo morning, heavy rain sliding ———down the pane, as my son knelt ———beside the shocking yellow puke and bile.…
Read MoreLent
By Poetry Mitchell Prize 2021
The lake has a provisional name. It has had other names. It’s possible those names were also in some way provisional, unless the lake has a name for itself. Facing it, it’s feasible to believe that the lake really does have a name, one it has given to itself and that it keeps. It keeps…
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