POETRY
TABLE OF CONTENTS
-
Imagine a Day
-
Ghosted
-
Sirens
-
A Generation of Mothers
-
Thread of Life
-
Self-Portrait as the Other Stepsister
-
How to: Turn on a Lamp
-
Retreat
-
Elegy in Midsummer Wind
-
Mother to Daughter
-
The Only Sound in the World
-
Behind the Lens
where the first thing she sees isn’t
the spider-webbed cracks multiplying her phone screen.
Where she doesn't need to bruise her finger
when pressing down on the screen protector
just so it can light up. She doesn’t have
23 missed calls asking her to work an extra shift
at the convenience store. Imagine a day where she doesn't
have to feel the ache in her legs from miles
on wet pavement, sand lodging in her soles
as they fray. She doesn't have to wait
an extra 17 minutes to board a bus while standing under
bursts of rain, rain soaking her thinning jeans
as she watches angry faces bob under umbrellas.
Imagine a day where the convenience store’s fluorescent lights don’t
flicker above as she enters, where her hands
don't tremble as she tiptoes to stock the highest shelf.
Where her customers don't yell at her for not knowing
where the salted pretzels are. Imagine a day where she boards
a train and falls asleep to the wheels’ rhythmic clack
beneath her as the landscape on the other side of the glass blurs
into a patchwork of green hills and shadowed valleys, wind
tugging at the edges of her long coat. Through the cracks
in the windows, the scent of saltwater slips through, the horizon
shimmering in the soft, fading light. She steps onto the sand, soft
as her toes sink into the scent of the saltwater, into the sound
of waves breaking against the shore. We can only imagine.
Imagine a Day
Written during January of 2025
Ghosted
Written during August of 2024
The train rattles against its tracks,
carrying me back to the town called home
with the watchful gaze of street lights
still flickering yellow. I step off—
suitcase in hand, soles sounding
ripples, wheels churning cracked tiles.
​
The road extends back home, friendly houses
asleep in neighboring lots—windows
hollow, familiar curtains shut, sealed away
from the world’s grit. The stone sidewalks
guard the vacant street. By the time I reach
my front door, the handle has already flaked
into pixels of dust—smearing
into scents of existence with my touch.
The rooms are sleeping as I enter—
just as I left them, dust still
draping mother’s smooth, shiny furniture
and the rivers of ragged shoes. I listen
for ghosted sounds—no footsteps scraping
through the hall while dragging me
to the dinner table. No voices
calling from the bedroom
to smile and say goodnight.
​
I tread down the creaking steps, sit
on the backyard bench, listening to a loop
of Mary Had a Little Lamb, children’s laughter
joyfully spiraling through the slide, hand-in-hand
with smiling strangers from the playground.
Kids chase each other through the labyrinths
of shedding oak trees, autumn dust
kicking up the leaves. Now
I loom, tracing the sandbox’s grained wood
in each groan of Victoria’s October shade.
​
With every touch, my hands mingle
with the memory of infinite hands
once resting here, hands that hold other hands
now, hands that rest in pockets—or hands
that cling to cracking phones on dirty beds.
I stepped out / onto the concrete, waffle cone / in one hand, the August sun / dripping gold beads into the cracked sidewalk / of sweet summer. Children's laughter / bubbling nearby, sandals slapping / gray pavement, doors chiming / and families shuffling / out on the simple street, the simple / sun, simple people. And then / the sirens came, a child across the street, sobbing at his snapped neck, pedestrians' eyes jolted, red / flashing against the storefront windows / hurtling down to the ice cream shop, reflecting / over my replicating face. I snapped / my waffle cone as my fingers / fidgeted with syrup-stained napkins, the ambulance / wailing over the children's laughter. How / annoying. But then, the day I awaited / descended, the crescendo of sirens / white as my knuckles clutching / the tissues flaking sadness / into my lap.
The ambulance grew, echo / to storm, the entire world screeching / into static. A stranger walked in / and whisked me away / with hands / I grasped to soothe my blood-soiled nose once / and only once, before / I sunk into a looming truck, where / frantic shadows flung across the courtyard’s / sterile walls, antiseptic / pulse thrumming. Maybe they were scurrying / paramedics, or outsiders / waving, or tables flooding / with bandages, my vision of the world multiplying / into infinity. Later that night, the stale mattress / puckers my skin everywhere / the memory of the pain’s infinite hands / has touched. I feel them / gnawing my skin, sometimes / skittish like the hands of toddlers / shivering in a corner. Sometimes / fluttering like the hands of an elder / still fragile with breath.
I’ve lost count of how many times / I’ve covered my ears, how many / times I’ve shielded my eyes / on the streets of Vancouver, as the headlights hurtle / and screech, slicing daylight into squares of panic. But today / a child clawing at a broken doll is stuck in the sterile stones / of these walls, amidst crying parents with / hands cupping mouths. I no longer see / the truck, no longer hear the sirens, no longer / blame the crying child with a broken neck or glare at / the mad driver honking, or even flinch / at the tire marks scratching the fragility / of the street.
In this glee of the bustling Arbutus street, I feel
a life––someone living through a day
they’ll wish they could forget.
Sirens
Written during April of 2024
A Generation
of Mothers
Written during September of 2024
February 27th, 1949
Was it enough?
Her face, her laughter spills / into corners of the house I never knew / existed, into the bedroom walls, empty kitchen sinks, the porcelain dishes I cook, half-baked pots and potteries. / I cut open a can of soup, / tomato soup. / Soup that she spit on the white tablecloth, a dragon breathing fire on the table's terrible edge, tongue / dripping and eyes swelling. She cries. The / soup's chopped sunflower seeds sinking deeper / deeper. / She slams her silver spoon against / the ceramic bowl, shattering / in the air, penetrating my fingers, my laminate floorboards, / right eye socket. / Screeches, shivers. Cook better, be better.
June 11th, 1972
Does she like lavender or lilac?
The lavender yarn slips through my fingers and the needle falls / on my lap. The needles click and stitches / form. She rattles downstairs––a skittish spider in the corner of a flaking windowsill, / arms crossed. Her heated room is cold, cold / like needles. / A sweater. / I twirl three strands of yarn, / lavender-colored yarn on / my index finger. / She cries. / I don't like / this yarn. She tugs / the stitches apart, strings slipping / like loose threads of a sunset. I grab / the needle on / the end, palm closed, needles shot, red blooms. She tugs harder, needle / sneaking out through my ring finger, / and I apologize.
October 19th, 2002
She wants to paint.
But the paint jars are translucent––a speck of / blue, an ounce of yellow, light / pooling over their glassy surfaces. / She had planned to paint a bow, a red bow, red like her / cherry-stained cheeks. Red, she said / eyes beginning to water. We / do not have red. / We do not have red, but / her bow, her bow / cannot be blue or yellow, cannot be green, it must / be red. / It must be red / because she said so. I make an incision on / my calloused wrist, skin blistering like / rotten cinder. Red! She smiles, smothers / her tinted blue and yellow paintbrush / on my creviced wrist flaking to / pixels of dust / and paints the giant bow / red. / The drawing is beautiful, so I tell her.
Oh how I love being a mother.
​
Saturday, 9:41 p.m.
Before my shower was interrupted / by a nuisance lurking in the corner, dangling / on a single thread, eight legs / gripping the mirror’s plane. Small / small and repulsive, easy-to-kill. Yellow / abdomen emboldened against / the bland reflections of the bathroom— marbled counter / and backsplash tiles, threads of hair covering my replicating face. Each leg / of her body stays static, headphones on, do not / disturb. No legs twitching as the light flickered on, no legs quivering / as my mother’s footsteps shook the floor and shattered / the stasis, matting the stiff carpet, the tremors that clung / tightly to the mirror. Do you want / to kill it? she asked, Kleenex in hand. / I guess. / She cut the thread, / lifted her body from the mirror, the body / light but firm, fingers closing / around the tissue. Closer, closer. / Space tightened around the spider, inevitably. / The next morning, as I ventured bustling avenues / and whiffed the summer breeze, my body was / serene. But my mind, my mind / spidered across the mirror, legs / multiplying into infinity.
That night, we cut the thread of life.
Thread of
Life
Written during October of 2024
Self Portrait as the
Other Stepsister
Written during October of 2024
How could I not see her beauty?
Mother watches her––a hawk on the attic’s terrible edge, beginning / with a tight jaw, a smile / sheathed behind a lip, then fingers / curling around the edge of the chair as / she glared my face downstairs. / I watch her, too, each time / she laughs a bright, airy laugh / into the kitchen stench or across the dusty chimney. So sweet, it hurts.
Mother never watches me.
Then, the big day. The day full / of corsets zipping and lungs wrapping / around my breath like shrouds, squeezing, the knots / sewing the bows into my crowned skin / bulging, lips painted with / my tongue’s gashed velvet. / I tell myself it’s necessary / because it is. But she descends the stairway, she drags / a splotched, ragged dress—thinning and fraying / to gray ashes at the elbow, swept / chimney cinder lodged in / my carved sleeves. In these tight bodices, I sunk into / years of tarnished pearls and constricted sighs.
But she held beauty. Eventually, I recognized it / crumbling across Mother’s face. Her jaw / strained, white as her tensed fingers, as her chattering / smile. Mother ripped her rag, one sleeve / of flowered lace, one strand of blonde hair. I ripped / her heel off, twisted her / ankle––her cruel, small ankle dangling like a note / of music. Mother dragged her / up the stairs, as I inhaled her heavenly cinder / and exhaled rotten glitter across my skin, pinching / my waist, twirling my hair.
Wasn’t I beautiful enough?
Wasn’t I elegant enough?
Look at me now.
It begins in your bedroom’s heavy dark—
the dense air, static dust, where years have
spilled and rusted. Your arm hangs over
the edge of the linen, feeding flesh
to the monster under the bed.
Tell yourself to move, to move those
pale, heavy limbs that the bed nibbled
for years. The lamp begs
on your nightstand, next to you, bending
its crooked spine as it waits––waits
for you, as you fold in the same
position, day after day. It waits as you talk
to yourself, scolding yourself for old arguments
with your forgotten parents over
your sister having two birthdays or
frowning in family photos, for forgetting
your friends’ handwritten New Years cards.
Raise your arm—the slow
and painful one, still tired
from clenching your phone
and then your blanket, aches setting in
your bones, in your trembling fingers
as they distort the lamp's metallic
base, nail beds brushing the cold
brass where the dust bites skin.
Now grip the switch, squeezed
into your calloused palm—nails uncut, skin
flaking into pixels. Your thumb rubs
left and right, searching
the knurling metal click to echo.
You click it. It clicks. Loud, sharp.
Light flings out, hesitant
to spread its thin, amber glow.
It scares the static dust
into the air, the monster
scurrying back under the bed.
Let your hand fall, and your eyes
flare at your room, pale and tired––
wrinkled blankets, ragged
shirts, sunken tea bags in cloudy ceramic.
But there's light.
You sit up, swing your feet to meet
the stale wooden boards. And as you stand
you cup your mug in your calloused palms—
steps to the kitchen shaking, the early light
peeking through the refracted window.
The dust floats into sunlight, morning's here––
and you let the light warm you.
How to:
Turn on a lamp
Written during November of
2024
Retreat
Written during August of 2024
Daysea Beach, 2012
I built kingdoms in the sand, traced / each wall and each tower / as summer shed its gold beads. / The cerulean sea faded into my skin / with the sky, as gulls wheeled / over the simple world—the simple / sand, simple sea, simple sun. Then / I stood, at the edge / of the pebble-crashed waves, the winds / redrawing the dunes. The handfuls of sand / slipping through my fingers would retreat / with the retreating tide. I turned, leaving / footprints the sea would swallow. / Years later, I stroll past the curving tides, past / the fallen kingdoms of shells / nesting, buried in sand, uneven, cold. Scratchy / on my skin. The waves roll in, painted / with foam, stained with debris, no longer endless / as the blue veils that meet the gulls.
When did the past wash away?
I barely recognize these dirty shell
fragments, this roaring hum of the sea.
after Jim Whiteside
I sink my feet into the pool
while watching a boy, orbiting
at ten years old, leaping into water
only to shed it from his dewy skin.
Will he one day stand, as I do
now, reflecting on ringing laughter?
As the machine reassembles
the lawn, one blade at a time, will he
understand the slow, grieving work
of rebuilding a lost life? Will he hear
the birds retreating from the songs
of his laughter dilated by time?
Maybe he will confront the flames
that took his father from bone
only lingering in the boy’s memory
of campfire songs and bedtime
stories, road trips sprouting grins.
But maybe, in his room, he floats
a bag of ashes, waiting for his father’s voice
to echo through the midsummer wind.
Watching him now, he burns
with laughter. I hope he never sits
in the dark, watching light flicker, reaching
for a clock that no longer ticks.
Elegy in
Midsummer Wind
Written during June of 2024
Mother to
Daughter
Written during June of 2024
Through whirling coaster tracks
we hovered, slippery and sweaty
hands latching the wooden railing.
Mirroring her focused gaze, her sparkling
eyes, I escape the humdrum lines
with her, the bustling crowds morphing
into Would You Rather questions.
In line, we stand
shoulder-to-shoulder, mother to
daughter—grinning, sun reluctant
to burn our necks, warming like an echoing
laugh inside an empty room. The same way
her laugh always stirs dried leaves
into song. Together, we face
each towering ride—the sharp dives
of the coasters, the teacups’ dizzy whirls.
The ferris wheel’s gentle sway.
Confidence in each stealthy step, we take
shelter in the shade, as the sun beams
onto the asphalt before us, no reason
to hesitate any longer.
The air’s shadows, stretched thin and slow.
The rustling pages of unused papers..
The pencils worn down to stubs.
The ceiling fan teasing the curtains.
In that space, silence pulled me in.
But then, summer breaks and I resurface—
my palms swelling from the heavy grip
of summer drowned in myriads of burning voices.
I open the bedroom door, expecting silence.
But the silence had shoved, stretched
and swallowed.
In bed, I await the hallway glow of footsteps
that never touches the bedroom. Fragments
of blankets spark on the other side
of the room, where she once curled, asking
about my day, laughing, kicking
the sheets as we said goodnight.
Her questions and laughter
now echoing, miles away, with her.
With time and final goodbyes
as I surrender to negative space
of solitude. Without anyone, this room
holds unease, air that refuse
to sleep. My stubbed pencils, me, longing
for the noise people comforted—
for the noise I sought to escape.
The Only Sound
in the World
Written during August of
2024
Behind
The Lens
Written during August of 2024
Ottawa, July 20th 2024
Shoulder to shoulder, under the tenderness
Of late sun, we rehearsed
Our smiles, eyes stoning
With each click of the polaroid.
You hand me the frame, the sun
rippling stars and crescents
across our glossy faces.
Our laughter flashes against
the white-ribbed edges, vibrating
through our shadows flickered
beside the static museum dwellers.
They tangle our inked faces
in a nest of radiance. It’s perfect—
We say it’s perfect because it is.
Because the summer air that shines
on our skin. Because you lived
behind the statues and curled your lips.
Because you see our smiles
but not yours. Because you are used
to not seeing your reflected face
in our memories of Ottawa.
Because you are behind the lens.
I wonder what the view’s like now—
behind the lens, those who are
never traced in pictures they click.