when the oak cried
saw teeth and nails. Varnish
finally soothing them down
into lying
blonde and beautiful.
With the windows wiped
of blood-smudged feathers,
the sun rushed right in,
blanching our vacation carpets
into continents of shame, until
we cheered them with blinds.
Struggling up the dark stairs,
those tortoise shell sconces
cast gloomy stains ...
* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.
Whatever boats are left
moored to shore have now
been reduced to flinders,
splinters, fragments.
A quarter mile away, water
mixed with silt has reached
downtown shops, climbing
steps, slapping the faces
of front doors and windows.
* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.
If I were starlight I, too, would touch you.
You stand above me on the dock
towelling off from our nighttime swim.
Droplets bright as crystal beads,
round and rolling toward each other
contain promises that seek the future
and cling to what they love.
I surface from the deep myopia,
wipe the lake out of my eyes,
and am blinded by the stars,
the outline of ...
* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.
By the time I got to the Folk Fest, the sun had dropped from the sky. I drove around the campground, dodging wayward hippies, until I found Rita and Gunnar’s site. When we were all sitting by the fire, I passed the bannock around and showed Rita my moccasins.
Infant babe,
babe who sleeps,
I am the oldest
living thing
you know,
an unshaven
bristlecone
bent over
your bed. Soon
you will meet ...
* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.
Nicholas Bradley is a poet, literary critic, and editor. He lives in Victoria, British Columbia.
Jan Morris was my literary hero. She was a noted historian, a celebrated essayist, and one of the world’s most treasured and talented travel writers. But no matter the topic, her writing was always unfailingly honest, insightful, and singularly elegant …
