July 27, 2017

I open a bottle of tar just to look.
Just to see if it is as beautiful as they all say it is.

Its lustre draws me in. The greasy, uncracked surface of it calls:
Enter for a moment and retreat. Enter for a moment and retreat.

I listen. I listen and I enter a universe of darkness, Siren-like spirits touching my hair and tugging me forward.
Come crash here, they say. Come lay your body on these shores for a moment.

I listen. I listen and I throw my light onto the soft, sticky earth, an ocean of smooth blackness lapping at my feet. A million tiny hands covered in fermented mud grab onto my skin and pull at me. A litter longer, and then go back. We promise you can still go back.

The mud dries to my skin, cracking and burning in the fierce sun like embers from an angry fire. I stay, withstanding the smell of my seared flesh, embalmed in the pleasure of never having known light.

And when the burning finally opens wounds in me, I stand. Now, now I want to retreat, I call to the spirits and the ghosts of this world. Now.

The answer returns, like a brief echo in a tunnel of caves, like ten thousand arrows quietly hurtling towards me, and from the mouths of many inconceivable entities: No. We will not let you.

I remain, franticly searching for a vessel to sail through the ocean of tar. But every vessel I board is overturned by waves, and the tar crawls up from my toes to my ankles, adding a thousand pounds to me with every inch.

Until I become one with its heavy blackness. Until my searching becomes slow. Until I am happy when the mouths whisper to me, You are home.



July 26, 2017

In 11th Grade Physics, Mr. Kumanja asked his students to build a bridge out of toothpicks. In order to pass the assignment, the bridge had to withstand the weight of a brick, and have enough open space between its legs for a water bottle to roll through.

I built my bridge. I spent hours with toothpicks wildly flung about my desk and white school glue clotting on my fingertips. I went with lots of triangular shapes – apparently triangles are strong. A girl would later look at all the triangles and say, “Did you build it that way because you’re Egyptian and you like, like the pyramids?”

Yes, I would tell her. That’s exactly why.

Mr. Kumanja tested bridge after bridge, each student apprehensively waiting to see whether his bridge would hold, or whether it would come crashing down, toothpick splinters and carcasses flinging themselves into classroom corners.

My bridge passed without ceremony or pomp. “Your bridge is the strongest,” Mr. Kumanja said to me later. “I kept adding weight atop it, and it withstood til the very end.”

Wonderful, I said to him. I am thrilled.

And then I thought I might become an architect someday. Or a designer or an artist. But I didn’t. I became a master of building pretend fragility out of clumsy glue and dollar store toothpicks. Then I tested myself by accepting bricks. First on my shoulders, then my chest, then my legs. I didn’t break. I knew I wouldn’t. (I used a lot of triangle shapes.)

I didn’t break, but I was buried like a seed that never sprouts – reabsorbed into the earth so it becomes nothing, but part of everything both at once. I still think about Mr. Kumanja sometimes from where I lay, brick wall atop my body, but withstanding til the very end.

I think he would be proud.

Honourable Men

July 5, 2017

You died.

You died and I started holding my own doors open: stepping to the side of my stroller, pulling on the door handle, then propping it open with my leg while yanking the stroller through. Being careful not to scrape our daughter’s legs against the frame.

All the doors made me want to bury myself next to you in the desert. Every door made me angry. It said to me: you are alone.

But I opened them. Out of sheer necessity, and maybe spite, and maybe the pleasure of hearing my own heart thump and grumble through it.

Doorways and pathways and hallways. Rooms and cars and buses. All reminded me that you had died. Every one of them. The street names around our home, the deodorant aisle at Loblaws, the rude elevator silences.

He died, they all said to me. He died and you didn’t. He died and left you here.

And the lights in the street never stopped working. No one took a day off work. The moon didn’t stop moving and thinning and growing. The bustle of the world didn’t take a single breath when you died. Nothing stopped to inhale the grief with me. It all kept humming and vibrating with laughter and tears and prayers.

I kept walking through hallways and doorways instead of walking away from my life. I kept buying groceries instead of starving myself. I kept climbing mountains of condolences instead of piling them on my chest so I could be crushed.

And now honourable men tell me – your mourning is over. Your mourning is over and now we will take care of you. It’s our duty.

And I want so much to tell you how angry I am. I am so angry at them. At their honour. At their desire to do the right thing.

Because for years I held the door open for myself. And I cried in grocery stores and in parks and in the dark. I cried at the moon and at the leftover essence of some man in an elevator who smelled like you. I cried until my face didn’t look like my face anymore. Until I became the crusty rag forgotten on the clothesline too long.

And now these men who are not you want to be honourable. After my hands have become calloused from work. After my voice has become permanently hoarse from mothering. After my heart has curled at the corners like bunches of dead leaves piled on the earth.

They want to be you.

But you. You were a man in love with some speck of goodness in me. Some reflection of heart and humour and potential. You came to me selfishly, seeking love and a whirlwind of whatever it is that makes this life worth living. That is how you came, and for a single dot in time, that is how we lived.

And they want to be you. They want me to let them hold doors open for me. They want me to let them give me gifts and things. They want to smile at our daughter and hold her chin and look into her eyes with love.

They want to be you.

But I have no need for their honourable love. I need a virulent love. A 20s love. A first love. A selfish love. A love that spreads itself across blank, faded living rooms and shakes with no-reason-laughter. A love that crosses time zones and time limits.

I need you.


March 14, 2017

There are

Ashes in my hair,
in this short, mangled mess.
Ashes in my tea,
in my barely-warm chipped mug.
Ashes in my socks,
in the bottom of each heel.
Ashes in my teeth,
in my gums and spurious smiles.
Ashes in my dreams,
in the darkness of fitful sleep.

There is

An erupting volcano up the way.
A cremation chamber across the road.
A troubled chain-smoker outside my window.
An overused fireplace in the sitting room.
A coal-burning party in my chest.

I am


Find your way back

March 12, 2017

Today was a day of immersion in you.

I dreamt of your face, your sweaters, your beard being just so. Slightly unruly, but only slightly.

I can’t remember the dream, but I remember willing myself to stay asleep longer. In my half-awake state, I shut my eyes tight wanting another minute of seeing you. Because the world is weary, still, without you in it.
And you are the rope, the string, the trail of stones or marbles or pieces of bread leading back home. And I follow you.

I follow you until the trail is cut short and I am in the middle of someplace I do not understand.

How long does love last? I ask myself as I twirl your fraying strings of memory between my fingers. Where does love go when you can’t keep it anymore?

Is it trapped like a firefly in an earnest child’s jar? Is it hung on a clothesline someplace under the burning sun to dry out?

Maybe it breaks apart and becomes absorbed by the air. And the wind brings it into our lungs until the love is what’s actually keeping us alive, breathing, moving.

Maybe your love laid itself softly onto the ground the moment your soul left the earth. Maybe it became an invisible trail when you died, pulling and pushing me, leading me someplace I don’t yet understand.

Still, I’d rather be asleep than awake. Because in that stretch of unconscious existing, there is still hope.

I’ve left the crumbs, the pebbles, the words and ropes and strings of prayers. I leave them everywhere I go.

Now find your way back to me.


January 12, 2017

I walked without direction today,
palms upturned towards the grey, drizzling sky.
I passed people on the puddly sidewalks,
avoiding eye contact and feigning interest in
the cold, grey pavement.
Emily Dickinson, I remembered then, was a people-hating hermit, wasn’t she?

The leaves had gone, and the trees reached up towards the sky as if to say,
come, rain.

But I know another reason they reach up, (though I won’t stop people on the street to tell them. They don’t seem interested, anyway.
And I am a hermit.)
Each spindly spiney branch had a set of its own sharp twig-like protrusions.
Every bit of the tree reaching. Every bit.

And it reminded me that not every bit of me is reaching.
The lazy bits are satisfied to dangle and sway depending on where I and the wind take them.

I saw a sideways tree, too. Growing out of the ground at a 60 degree angle
and I thought this tree grew where it was planted and didn’t ask permission.

Would that I were a tree
and didn’t have to ask, may I grow, may I reach, may I be stripped bare of everything and yet still try?


How Sad.

November 15, 2016

It started with the hugs after you died.

I stood at the centre of the room with people milling about around me, like a time lapse sequence in a commercial.

Then they came to hug me, one by one. People I knew. People I didn’t know. People I cared nothing about.

One of them cried as she held me, wetting the neck of my brown and white scarf. She wanted to be comforted, so I did the right thing and patted her on her back saying, it’s going to be okay. Then she picked up her gaudy Egyptian purse and left, feeling better about herself because she came.

People came and went, I didn’t know their names. They wanted to see the widow. So I let them see me, as though I were an animal crying behind steel bars at the dusty Alexandria zoo.

How sad they must’ve thought as they texted their husbands to come pick them up.

That’s how it started – with the hug from the woman with the gaudy Egyptian bag, dumping her sorrows into my scarf, leaving it sweaty and heavy. I told her be brave.

I thought it was the right thing to do to tell everyone: be brave so I could hide behind phony bravery and assemble a home out of selflessness. I stood outside in the street at night, giving my story and love to whoever would have it, showing them how brave I was.

How sad they must’ve thought, as they counted their change to decide if it was enough to buy a pack of chiclets.

I peddled all my sad stories away, knocking on the hearts of anyone willing to shed a tear for me. I put myself in a cage, like an animal who has never known the hunger of the wild.

I wrote myself into a corner, I can’t get out. And even if I could, where would I go? There is no more journey when all the paths have been gifted to others.

Keep Something

October 20, 2016

Keep something I tell myself.
You’ve given too much away.

Keep something for after the sun sets and the children are asleep,
for the long drives in the beat up van that smells slightly of old candy wrappers,
for quiet moments of concentration beneath the flickering kitchen lights.

Keep some poetry to dance with your heart as you look out a foggy window,
as you wipe away the starting spots of mould in the corner of the tub,
as you pull on a plain grey pair of tights, frayed at every edge.

Keep some of your words to yourself, to line the edges of your fingertips as you mince the garlic and smell of it all day,
to swim in oceans of thought processes for all the minute decisions you make,
to chuckle at secretly in the midst of people you just don’t like.

Keep some of your heart to yourself, to scrape at the overused and torn edges of every paperback in your possession,
to claw away at the anger that inhabits the space between your shoulder blades and gut,
to counteract the poison you drink every evening when you have a spare minute.

Not everyone needs to know everything.
Not everyone needs to taste your medicines when they don’t have the same illness as you.

Keep something for yourself. Just one thing, just one thing.
Everything you give, you’re losing out of your own body. There’s a leak in your heart, and its sorrows and remedies are making their way out of your fingers and toes.

Until you are nothing. Until everyone has taken everything from you.
And you are violently rung out to dry, lifted from the ground in a gust and subject to the whims of whatever storm brews today.

You were never that rag of a body you’ve become. I do not recognize you anymore. No one wants the shell and the peel after the insides are eaten.
No one wants you like this.
You don’t even want yourself.

So keep something. Please.


September 13, 2016

There are only so many times a flower can grow from the ground without thorns – only so many times she can lay herself in full splendor at the mercy of every predator and heavy boot until she is crushed beyond recognition.

She grows again, from nothing, hoping this time will be different. Hoping the elements will not kill her, will not grind her into nothingness. But they do. She hopes the heavy boots will decide to take another road and spare her life. But they do not.

So she grows again. From nothing again. Except this time she is not defenseless. She has thorns. Beautiful, wounding thorns that pierce the hands that touch her, that draw blood from every malicious wanderer.

She may yet be destroyed. In spite of her thorns, she is still weak. Still made from softness and merciful kisses from the sun. Still beautiful, despite her best attempts to appear otherwise.

But even so, even as she lay on the ground dying, plucked from her very core and strewn aside by careless hands, she laughs. Because as she is absorbed by the earth to be reborn, someone walks away with bloodied palms.

Sort-of Woman

August 6, 2016

I am sort-of woman.

The kind of woman who is woman, biologically – I mean, physically weak with bones that bend and ligaments that tear because she lifted something too heavy. Weak woman. Biologically woman with monthly mood swings and ear piercing holes that won’t disappear despite her not wearing earrings for years now.

Sort-of woman is biologically all-woman. But emotionally, not.
Not really anyways.

Full-woman is loved. Not by fans, not by children, not by friends. Full-woman is loved by man. It doesn’t have to be a popular thing to say, but it’s true.

Full-woman is someone whose curves are appreciated, whose cooking is looked forward to, who makes her home warm and inviting despite every flick of pain and ink of disaster writing itself just beyond the front door.

Sort-of-woman is less known. Less known as the warmth-giver, less known as the person from which everyone derives strength to get up another day, less known as beautiful. Less known.

Sort-of woman defies death by becoming it. She wants nothing, and thus she is not wanted. Not really, I mean. Not essentially. Not desperately. Not in your home or in your heart.

She hangs in the balance of existence, not truly loved, not truly loving. Just there – weak like a woman in every way, but without the one who looks at her weaknesses through the male lens and sees them as strengths.

I often wonder, what is woman when no one loves her? Who is she if she can’t speak, I mean really speak to someone she loves with impunity?

She becomes sort-of woman. There, despite not being needed. Don’t mince my words. I mean really needed.

Sort-of woman. I know her and she knows me. Always admired, but never quite wanted.