Allen Bern, In the Face of the Path.

Alleyway

I want to talk about my dog. She is the sweetest one, a pit

bull, but a sweeter dog you will never know. Her name is

Cannella because of her pure cinnamon color. I think of her

as a wolf though she would never eat me . . . or would she? I

know that, with her strength of jaw, she could terminate me

in minutes . . . and then eat me? If she were hungry enough

she would, I guess. Sometimes she sniffs my backpack,

whatever’s been in it, maybe food, maybe my dictionary. . . I

found her name in my dictionary looking for cane, dog, but

spelled it canne and found cannella and there she was, a

perfect color match. I look up words I find in newspapers too,

like in the Express. The other day I found vape— turned out it

was the Word of the Year in 2014. I thought it had more to do

with vapor— maybe not, since it just filled a techno-gap for

something NOT smoking. Who knew? I just see those kids

vaping everywhere I look.

Further details

Gram Joel Davies, Not Enough Rage.

Did Tracy Chapman Play Last Night In Someone’s Camp?

We shirked the fence in those days, pitched

our shanty in the domes and poles. Long after

the Main Stage ended, we sat with unzipped awnings

to the skank and woofer of campervan rigs.

A thickness in the air. So packed, we could exchange

our brass-bowled peace pipe, reaching tent-to-tent:

flicking a Clipper; tickling the amygdala...

Through canvas came a screech-owl voice, slowly

morphing into a woman’s words. Perhaps, my friend,

it was you who later described: a flap-door parting –

a man who beat and roared in the Calor glare.

I hear it still: the way the flesh makes little sound.

Did we flinch, like molluscs, into our sleeping bags?

What form my thoughts took as I willed

some way to cushion his fists, I don’t know.

You tell me yours had been a demon’s knife

raking through purple heat to stop his heart.

You say mine were the same – we made the curse

together – and during the grey light

festival wardens pulled him from a dirty torrent

where he’d lain, face first, for hours.

Further details

J. D. Isip, Kissing the Wound: Poems and Fragments.

Jackie and Wayne

I remember the cigarette in Jackie’s hand every time

she said get over here and kiss me on the cheek

coffee in the pot for who knows how many hours

Jackie yelling at the dog, yelling at the kids, yelling

it’s too damn hot, it’s too damn cold, it’s too damn much

for all of us and, hey, your mom’s gonna be home soon

I remember Wayne, a once white shirt faded in grease

nuzzling into Jackie’s neck what’s all your yelling for

woman can’t you see the sun is out, the kids are fed,

I’ve got a job on Monday, and here you are, give me a kiss,

give me one of those cigarettes too, and look at you

Wayne’d say to me, your mom’s gonna be home soon

I remember the tan on Michael Wayne two years before

he went to jail, a Metallica shirt with cutoff sleeves,

was he only seventeen, was he as perfect as it seems

that summer at Jackie and Wayne’s is fading year by year

Sometimes I dream them back again and Michael Wayne

leans into my neck to say we’re all gonna be home soon

Further details

Diana Manole, Praying to a Landed-Immigrant God.

First Night: In the Basement

Mould. Sewage pouring down the walls.

A neon light flickers mockingly.

I, immigration’s metaphor,

my arms around my knees

and a dumb smile.

Yes: “The doors are locked but I still try to open them.”   

I know: “No one can hear me!”                                          

But I keep on shouting                                                        

until my vocal chords snap like the strings of a guitar

a three-year old is slamming against the living room furniture.

Maybe I deserved a more Canadian nightmare:

Air conditioning. Humidifier. A washroom with

toilet paper and antibacterial liquid soap

at the end of the hallway

or at least a dream in pastel colours.

I stubbornly keep chewing flavourless gum

once orange.

Prima noapte: la subsol

Igrasie. Apă curgând pe pereţi cu miros de canal.

Un tub de neon clipind enervant şi ironic.

Eu ca metaforă a emigrării

cu genunchii strânşi la piept şi un zâmbet tâmp.

Da: „Uşile sunt închise, dar încerc să le deschid.”

Ştiu: „Nu mă va auzi nimeni.”

Si totuşi strig

până când corzile vocale plesnesc ca o chitară

cu care un copil de trei ani loveşte mobilele din sufragerie.

Poate că aş fi meritat un coşmar ceva mai canadian:

Aer condiţionat. Umidificator. Un veceu cu hârtie igienică

şi săpun lichid

la capătul culoarului

sau măcar un vis în culori de fondantă.

Mestec încăpăţânată gumă care a avut cândva

gust de portocale.

Further details