fragments of poems and some photographs.





. . .   

Her look flattens to a nickel. I put brackets to hold the thought,

Put back the gowns she's pulled from the cupboard, put her in bed,

Search for deep breaths in the outline of a kidney-shaped pan.


Text comes from beside me in the dark: we are going to need a sedative soon.

I mute my volume and reply: totally. we should get one for Mom too.

You can only be mad at a person in a hospital bed for so long.

. . .



is a 10- minute spoken-word poem performed as part of Dance Marathon 

 questions spill out of your little Clara Bow mouth like diamonds

 and your whole face is a soft rabbit skin purse

 my grandmother gave me when I was nine

it is my first vacation and your eyes are the twinkling stars on that camping trip

and roasting marshmallows and what it was like to have a family

before it all

fell apart.

I separate my life into what I think it interesting and what I think is boring and sometimes I think I am wrong and that I am missing the beautiful moments.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                   pale blue beginnings of a sky

                                                                                                                                                                                           hover over the still sleeping buildings 

                                                                                                                                                                             the cars on the rain-slicked street

                                                                                                                                    make the sound of bread bags being opened.

                                                                                  raining kids sleeping hot coffee embers of another life

                                                   hidden alleys and works in progress,

The alleys of Montreal are the veins of the city and ghosts and memories are its invisible tumbleweed.

. . .