Poetry

My brother lost his body
bit by bit—a foot, a finger, a shin.

Fat flies line the bait box, brush and cling
like scraps of cellophane, ragged magnets

The man who loves you
is nothing but a ghost.
He walks through walls,
his name on your mouth like prayer.

I thought we were dead
when Dave spread his maps
across the wheel and took off
his glasses to consult them while his semi
careened unchecked down the interstate.

Joseph of Arimathea
is riding the Carleton Street car
grail tucked in a gym bag

this metropolis is hurly-burly—
you’re striving with deadlines

Dusty, corralled by clear walls
of plexiglass, they smell of age,

Show them which goal is theirs
and which goal
they’re supposed to score in

The honourable mention in our 2009 poetry contest, judged by Sachiko Murakami.