It starts with a river. Green hills, and promising flatland beneath them. All these trees go, and get lugged out of the clearing. The stone near the water is brought to the place where the woods once stood, and also the felled trees that lived there before, and this...
Sister Nora shaved Amritjit and Balwinder’s hair— “export the dictator from the province next door the twentieth century could be home” —Kimberly Alidio, Songs of Americas Sister Nora shaved Amritjit and Balwinder’s hair— walked them home herself by noon, school was...
My brother lost his body bit by bit—a foot, a finger, a shin. The doctors strapped it to a bed, and the mouth screamed on its behalf: Help! Help! With the eyes, my brother spied me, standing in the body of someone who looked like his sister; and the mouth said Health!...
The honourable mention in our 2012 poetry contest, judged by Miranda Pearson. There is the crosscutting of twigs, the bulge of red buds carving sky into fragments of grey waiting, molecules of paint melded by winter’s cold on a window frame that won’t open to spring’s...
Fat flies line the bait box, brush and cling like scraps of cellophane, ragged magnets in the heat. You shuffle to band a lobster. In a heartbeat it’s caught your thumb with a crusher claw, the grip of an angry baby multiplied tenfold. Stupid for a moment, you can’t...
I. Vows A hardscrabble climb up the hillside, I. Vows A hardscrabble climb up the hillside, the thin chorus of marmots raised by my footsteps. If your small brow rested on my back the good weight could hold me here, until the sun hangs just below the mountains, casts...
The man who loves you is nothing but a ghost. He walks through walls, his name on your mouth like prayer. —for my mothers The man who loves you is nothing but a ghost. He walks through walls, his name on your mouth like prayer. His name is what you tell yourself...
The poem I am not going to write excuses herself daily, needs to wash her hair, roust the dust bunnies from under the bed, empty the worn-out clothes that malinger in her closet. The poem I am not going to write excuses herself daily, needs to wash her hair, roust the...
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. I thought we were dead when Dave spread his maps across the wheel and took off his glasses to consult them...
The honourable mention in Room's 2011 poetry contest, judged by Elizabeth Bachinsky. There were so many errors in the newspaper obituary that no one knew it was my mother who had died. Momma, who had lived off the river, off the sand and rust-tainted water that fed...
ROOM 48.1 WITS END
In times of crisis, we laugh to offer tenderness, to ward off despair— so we can be brave. Gather round ROOM 48.1 WITS END and let humour be a mirror held up to the state of the world as we continue to resist.
ROOM 47.4 FULL CIRCLE
Step back with Room into the past, to parents, to childhood homes, and to people once known and loved; dig into themes of grief and healing; and ultimately explore what it means to come full circle in literature.
Seeking members who love literature, events, merchandise, and supporting marginalized creators.
Wits End | 48.1
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Full Circle | 47.4
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Bodies | 47.3
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Seedpod | 47.2
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Utopia | 47.1
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Sponsor a Contributor
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Sponsor a Writer
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Sponsor a Poet
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Fever Dream | 46.4
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Fever Dream Tote Bag — Limited Edition