March 19, 2016
These days have heavy skies, gutters backlogged with drowning worms, horrible pregnant crayfish making their insistent way. The wind changes direction and the sky is pink at the edges.
I remember you when the seasons change. It’s lucky I don’t have the choice, because I would give everything, anyone, my life, to talk to you again.
January 15, 2015
I wish I knew/remembered the name of the one you took that night. What name in crude black paint it had. I’m sorry on the painted over Norco with the whitewalls I didn’t reach back to you. How much fuckery was I supposed to take?
November 24, 2014
Your father doesn’t know why, a dozen years later. I have an answer he can’t receive. Our losses barely resemble each other.
June 5, 2014
Memories I know are not my own and yet I myself see her, crazy little elf in sock feet, fine hair lit by grey plasma from the hall light behind. I see the ceiling I wrote on through your eyes while you lay there.
We exchanged memories. The thoughts of one body were transferred to another.
Too young to know what means such reckless magic.
May 15, 2014
No search can emerge you now. The old content rearranges itself, never revealing anything. I’ll never find anything.
An October night, my first night with them, the first night I hardly thought of you, you left me a message before throwing your wallet from the Bloor Viaduct.
That rancid summer, the summer you rode those yellow community bicycles, we climbed to the top of the malt plant with a couple of other people.
June 10, 2013
Go by and I don’t think of you. But then I’m reminded by a colour. I wear it and the perfume you used to wear.
March 19, 2013
I live on top of a hill where I can be alone. My new plastic vacuum cleaner leaves tidy plush lines and the stove has never been turned on. My bedroom is as hot as I like and go to bed early and sweat through the night. It feels like something bad will happen any minute and I’ll lose it all.
November 23, 2012
I haven’t been back to your grave. Long shiny cars, older but well-kept, meander what looks more like a walkway than a road. I’m not sure if/how you are supposed to drive through it.
You are buried in the same cemetery where my grandmother’s remains are. That chill grey day of her funeral I went out in the muck with my fancy shoes as though I would find your grave easily.
Today I’m not sure if the little building at the entrance contains a directory. I don’t go inside. I drive, then walk around looking for the hill from my memory of that day.
That memory is out-of-proportion,. We are gathered on top of a green hill. There is no memory of any other graves, just yours, your grey and white casket on a hill and under a sky like a Microsoft ad from that era. Today in November the low hills are nothing like my memory. I see your teacher arrive (and this is nearly funny, the way I see this) he rises over the hill like a pilgrim, or a Wise Man from the East, I almost see the air waver in front of him as though from the heat of the desert. I see him with walking stick and robes, his real gear connected in my mind, I guess, with the tools and garments needed to survive in an uninhabitable place. His presence thrills me.
I sit with our friend, for a minute, holding hands. The two of us cross legged in front of that hole in the earth and the box containing the garbled, desecrated remains of you.
The memory of my resolve, glossy-eyed and far-sighted, seems shameful now in light of the grief that followed. The worst wasn’t over. But I knew that too.
I don’t find your grave today, I don’t stumble on it. It seems like everyone here is so long dead. I still haven’t been back, not in ten years.