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April Showers


To me the poems this month all have that feeling when you wake up to a gray sky, everything is wet, and it’s raining. It’s the start of a day of inconsistencies; since the sun is hidden, morning lasts all day. Maybe it’s in their rhythms that pattern like drops. Gorgeous sunshine March has passed, and spring slows in April. These poems reflect that: mud and worms and pools on asphalt, and finding a lost earring or two.


Peace and Love,

Mayan Godmaire

Creative Writing Editor



Ode to Opportunity

By Beth Fecteau

Contributor


You died when you were only fifteen. I remember

My science teacher projected it on the SmartBoard

And I excused myself to the bathroom.

I myself was barely sixteen. How sad it was

That I was allowed to continue while you powered down.

My battery is low and it’s getting dark.

Achingly human last words,

Even though you were a robot, a mechanical insect

Skittering across the surface of the Red Planet

The way an ant skitters across my knee when I sit on the pavement too long.

So small. I am so small.

I was sixteen, knowing that it was you

Who would make a bigger mark on the world

Even though you lived and died

Two hundred and sixty-four million kilometres away.


I read that you sang happy birthday to yourself every year.

I wonder if the sound echoed.



Chaos

By Kiara Colombo

Contributor

walk through the forest’s path

where the spiders unleash their wrath.

filthy webs of bugs and guts,

knee-deep cause i’m such a klutz!


fall into mossy swamp water

then take a nap on the lily pads and slaughter

slimy green frogs.

they never could beat the odds!


run between the trees and avoid the wrapping vines,

on your right! don’t you ever read the signs?

the radioactive river is still so blue

it’s a deja fucking vu!


humankind made the river radioactive,

untouchable but it’s still so attractive.

if you eat the poisonous berries,

you’ll get to play with fairies!


but don’t trust the fae and their murderous ways

it hasn’t always been Tinkerbell since the beginning of days

just another dream story by the hands of humankind

that will leave you blind!


anyway, i’m talking out of line.


grab a squirrel off a tree by his fuzzy tail

now, fire up the grill and sip on homemade pale ale

i haven’t been making any sense

and i think i need to learn self-defense!


the truth is, the forest and the frogs and the bugs were here first.

and now they’re cursed.

my hands are bloody, and yours are too;

the world will never be brand-new.


Genie

By Fab Pilon

Contributor


Back where we started again

Lost, words parched

You look at me;

Hear the desert.


We left for the desert together years ago

Are they months are they days,

The sky crumbles like bread too dry


Rocks and things and dreams of something better

We left for the desert lives ago

Our throats dry from the sound thrown away

The horse collapsed, named at last


We shall be named as well if the graves deliver

Until then we stand faceless

Sexless

Salt statues in the great empty


The desert is hot and our skins grow rigid

Grow moist like a fever

We leak like monsters

We shiver like ghouls


I would sell all I have to be back in the morning bed


I would sell

All I have

Not much

But the thought counts, it counts, it counts


To be back in our morning bed

Your hand full of dunes,

Of cracked valleys

I give you water, give you water, give you water

From my lips to your lips I give you water


O my lips are so dry now

And your hand freezes away

There is water no more, and no one to give it to

We stare at the sand as the silence screeches


The desert has a mouth full of hunger in the morning

We wake and find ourselves swallowed up

I think we thank him, or perhaps we scream

For what else can you tell the desert

And our names fall upon us like metal on the anvil

And we lose consciousness with a flash of understanding.


I wake up in the morning bed

I wake up in the evening bed

My lips are dry; I can feel you nowhere

Tomorrow the desert.


Glittering Generalities

By Vanessa Mia Lozza

Contributor


A gold palace

A yellow brick road

A familiar land that is unknown

If one stands too close beware and be warned not to be blinded by the gold



Untitled

By Bastien MacLean

Contributor


There’s a pretty pale blonde girl crying in St-Laurent

In a house on a street on an island on a rock she shares with a million strangers

A city of hollow souls mournfully sings her silent symphony


Charcoal embers and soot drift past black tar hobos

Clad in paper brown coats riddled with holes

Misty vapor, translucent like a poisoned diamond

Blowing bits of broken glass and gravel along empty streets


Under a dark starless sky bleeding synthetic red

Burning metal towers smoke grey storm clouds

Carcinogenic and clinging to the aluminum corpse

Carmine acid tears rain down, toxic to the touch


Looming high in the chemical atmosphere is a faceless bourgeoise

Blindly drinking brandy and battery acid as celebration for

Chamomile green paper etched with the faces of dead white men

Gorging on greasy profits slimy with black sweat and blood


She’s still crying in St-Laurent

And now I’m crying too


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