Return to Sender

Was she thinking: grief
is a letter you mail to yourself

once the turnstile’s been turned
at the subway station

x number of times. The delay
is necessary, chosen in advance

for a day like this, when she pushes
the door open into a room

made immaculate, and relatives
made inquisitive, by an infant’s 

early death . . .
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 4. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

Recommended

Globetrotter

toronto is amsterdam adrift at sea it breathes the open atlantic where lines and angles blur and bend into mist toronto is prague without her anchoring of narrow streets narrow sky and virgin-tight apartment blocks it is london long-jumping her imperial shadows trafalgar-ing into space . . .  Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 1 . . .

The Poet’s Voice

Back at Mount Sinai Dad’s still asleep, exhausted by the chemo. The doctors won’t admit it but I can tell they don’t give him much of a chance. They’re wrong of course. He may be silent . . .