To Toronto

I must love you quietly, embarrassed by your unwieldy desolate sprawl, your cold heart and shameless lack of fashion sense; deliberately love what you have cobbled together so carelessly on gridded streets predictable as a sitcom, the 1980s a garish tattoo on your nether regions . . .

Rock Dove

“Miss? ” His hand closes on my forearm. “You got time to help an old man? ” It takes me a second to see it—his eyes are useless. “Miss? ” How can he tell I’m not a missus, a ma’am? Can they smell that deep? He gives my arm a squeeze . . .


Mo cannot take Fridays off. As a result he finds himself praying in the eastbound streetcar on his way to work. He assumes the appropriate position—as if holding the Qu’ran in hand—and enters a meditative state of worship, mumbling to himself at points where he usually sings when in the privacy of his own room . . .