Tuesday, July 23, 2013

It was like landing on a pillow, our feet softly rooted in the silk sand,
horizon that reached until the end of the earth. We were like lizards.
Nothing could make us leave until the sinking, the last spot of sun.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013


I so miss
my spot in your bed,
our early mornings, late mornings,
me sneaking out for a run
then coming back to your sleeping legs around me
and the way the wind comes through the windows
and turns the chestnut tree leaves around
in front of the house.
People are starting to walk by
with their dogs and coffees.
They have no idea how much is happening
inside our little womb.
How many little kisses
we breathe
then miss
as soon as they’re gone.

Monday, July 8, 2013


You were always a willing accomplice.
You taught me how to be a mermaid when I swam,
how to crocodile my feet in bed to keep me safe,
how to get rid of the ghosts behind the door.
Later, when I had no door, we made a bed on your floor
and I camped out,
and the laughter was our door,
an indestructible castle wall.

I watch you now, a bit behind you.
I watch the way you run, and climb.
You’ll never run fast enough to get away.
You can’t climb away from you.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012


Saturday, January 21, 2012

Brave bear

with the cold wind at your back,
the thin quiet.

The way you march through thick forest
and keep the song you sing
inside you

tucked away
like a locket.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

it's the sound of one heart

and what's inside.

Monday, January 16, 2012


Your crossed wings like a star,
your bright glowing colours.
The way your body
is a spear,
and a rainbow.

Sunday, January 15, 2012


Listen to the hummingbird
flap its wings to float.
It leaves a hum you can hear
from yards away.

It’s the sound of one bird
of one bird
standing still.

Thursday, January 12, 2012


That something so unloved
can will itself
this much
to live.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

grade 4

Puzzle pieces, instruments
in the coat room,
crumpled paper airplanes
and comic strips,
and plastic straws and stars
that could make a house
or a fort.

There was a moment. And then
we didn't even notice
the house
in pieces
on the floor.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

love this much

Is it the quiet way
the little yellow leaves
on the almost bare tree blow?

Or how the streetlight
stares a spotlight
at the spidery arms
of this hovering, hunching tree?

What brings you
to love this much

as if this world is a picture
someone painted
just for you?

Saturday, December 17, 2011


Is there anything more magnificent
than the bare-branched tree
that stands
in the thundering windstorm
and shakes?

Like this one,
how it bends
but doesn't break,
how it digs its roots deep,
how it extends its bony arms.
How it fits itself
just so
into the deep, green forest.

Can you feel how it is
at once
and still a part
of everything?

Monday, June 6, 2011

There's a story about a girl who saves a village with her singing

Everyone in her village is disappearing.
She starts to sing
and discovers it stops the disappearing,
so she keeps singing.

Soon she knocks on all the people’s doors to sing to them,
and they reappear
and then there are more
until the town is alive again.

I dream one night it’s true
and I'm her.

But my family is gone and they won't come back
no matter how much I sing.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

The moment starts to melt

and uncover its soft white roots
and buried layers
of crimson soot
and soil.
The magic

you never saw.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

First, there was the moment you couldn’t forget

even when you tried,
when your insides jumped and scurried,
which was enough. It was just
another hand
on yours, unfolding
a question
you’d never thought to ask.

It wasn’t long
before your heart

burst open—

it was a wild, red fire,
pulsing and beating, like the heart of bird
in the palm of your hand.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Memory 1

Dim kitchen light,
my mother’s lap
and the deep blue walls
around us.

The way my knees
tucked perfectly over hers
like two limbs swung
over top of a tree branch.


You twist down forever miles of country field,
call every town you touch your home.

Your waters seep through roots
that splay out under houses and acres
where memories are kept.

Each year, pieces pile up on your bed:
words from the neighbours' buried stories.
They've turned to dirt from years underground.

Great River, Mighty River, cascade
of memories.

The people don't remember,
but the houses that line your path
are watermarked
with the names
of all their stories.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Wedding photo

Your mother’s two hands buckle at her front
like a strapped stone. You curl
your body away like smoke,
melt into his. You don’t know
what to call this feeling-
after-feeling so you say it’s love.

Like a secret set of wings.
No one knows if it’s really there.

Friday, February 27, 2009


Not the fists he holds tightly at his sides,
not his puffed-out chest bracing wind
or the mast that’s planted behind you both.

You’ll try, but
none of it—not even your arm
slid through his—
will be enough
to stop
this sensation
of falling.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Coil, then unravelling

It’s early morning. Sticky summer air
pokes through window-screen holes
onto your curled-up body
like sun rays on a little spore.

Dad pokes his head in
to see if you’re up. You bound
out of bed, uncurl, follow him, full of sweaty, summer dreams,
full of thick sleep.

You’ll get older and keep doing this.

This life of yours, windblown,
will always be like a piece of string

coiling, then unravelling in the wind.