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Bittersweet mornings

tracing my father’s back

howling in summer grasses

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these are things that grow in winter

cold weather birds redouble efforts, wrenching invisible crumbs from dirty ice; fake flowers bloom into expectant second faces, spring anachronisms against mint houses melting into peeling, pistachio porches . . .  Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 5 . . .

the menu in my heart is all wrong

my stare goes from the plate to the dainty language on the menu Golden Baskets, a tiny quintet of brittle pastry shells . . .  then back to my plate, and I wonder what my spice-obsessed hawker-stall friends in Bangkok would think of defrosted veggies baked in cardboard-stiff pastry cups on the Danforth, limits of Greektown, middle of a snowstorm . . .  Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 5 . . .