Maple

The bottom of the maple tree 

suited my purposes, so I 

dug down with my bare hands 

until I uncovered the roots. 

I took the tin box filled to the

brim with you, and stuck it 

between those mighty veins. 

The dried blushing roses, 

the letters and the poems, 

and even your marbled heart

arranged between the tissues

that dried all the tears you 

gave me, buried in the ground. 

And there my love can grow, 

warped in the roots of that big 

maple tree, rather than inside of 

a heart that can no longer 

sustain life. The only evidence 

left behind is the black dirt 

on my hands from covering 

it up. 

You no longer deserve

the cries of my heart. 

Slieve Bloom

And with every gust of
heavy Irish wind I am
washed of the black,
miry bitterness that sat
in the corners of my
heart. Your name no
longer evokes the
stinging pain and the
aching dullness, but
rather the longing of
an eager heart, of a
forgetful heart. My lips
whisper prayers as soon
as you slip into my mind,
and I pick the petals of
poppies, letting each one
fly like the past seven
weeks. I am overwhelmed
by my earnest heart's
desire, to see you become
so totally wonderful
and strong, and I only
pray now for the true
privilege of being able
to witness it.

I drag my hands through the fields,
keeping them wide open.

Forget Me Not

We were delicate and blue
in the ground only weeks,
aspiring and full of life,
beauty beaming from our
bright eyes, hope in the
middle of our chests, and
love on the tips of our
tongues. The wind sang us
to sleep every evening,
the sun fed us its glory
with every passing hour,
and we belonged to the
earth, together and strong
we stood. But when the
rain came you forgot to
dance, and when the thunder
crashed  you ran instead,
and even now my whole
being aches for my
closest friend, my most
loyal and true love, and
I wonder where you are
and what you see, what
you dream, and though
it's still raining, I have hope
for sunnier days. Days where
you will come back, brave
and unaffected, standing
with me again. My dear,
please don't forget.

Phone

I become another woman
when your voice hits my
ears, and it's not the one
you know and love, but
another creature altogether.
My words become sharp
and my throat lends me
no sweetness, and my tone
only savours of anger and
hurt, and self-defence. I
hear her talking for me,
when inside I want to show
you that I'm still here, still
that same girl, still gentle
and kind, and a little more
understanding than I
probably should be, but
can't get it out. All that
leaves my lips are the
songs of the wounds that
sit in the pit of my soul,
the promises you made
that you so casually broke,
and the frustration I have
with myself for thinking
that you were different.

Because right now,
you're acting just the same.

Best

Because I never lived my life
for you, I trust you to time,
and the perfection of a will
not my own. But that doesn't
mean this is easy, or that I've
stopped loving all of your
broken pieces, or that I'm okay
with this path you've chosen
for me. Yet I will bear with you
because there is really no other
way for me to go. I am always
here.

Archeology

I comb through the ruins
like an archeologist eager
to find the answers, looking
for signs in the dust that
offer the why, the how,
and the who. And the site
that marks the destruction
of "us" tells the story so
clear. Your reasons are
etched into the fibre of
your character, always
protecting and shielding
others from the beautiful
turmoil in your mind.
Oh it seems like you've
forgotten the day you told
me you loved me, the letters
and the flowers, the little
momentos and the way
you would stare into my
eyes and just whisper how
beautiful I was to you.
And since I would have
chosen to patiently walk
beside you through every
dark valley, had I been given
the chance, and loved you with
a quiet love, that lets you free
and lets you think, I have to
conclude that it was not I,
that destroyed this wonderful
gift, but you. You let go
of my hand and chose to
go through the war alone,
when you've always wanted
someone to know the very
depths of your wild heart,
We had seen bigger catastrophes
and weathered more treacherous
storms, but you through away
our love, and me, along with it.

Birds

My friend, I know he wants
your mind, he wants your
heart and the blood in your
viens, and he wants your hands
and your feet, your drive and
your will. He wants you to
bend to his darkness,
collapse under the weight
of the sin that he reminds you
of constantly, replaying
behind your eyes like a movie,
clear and detailed, he whispers
your thoughts, the ones you
suppress, but he knows, oh
he knows. And my friend,
I need you to see that he's
driving you into the cave
of your own head, isolating
you from the life that you have,
and magnifying your every fault,
shaming you for your humanity,
your unavoidable imperfection
and pulling you away from every
good and wonderful thing you
ever cherished, he's stealing
your joy, and selling you lies.

My friend, how much more
do you pray?

Emerald

Weeks until I touch the
ground of the only place
that has ever taken me as
its own. The only place
where I have danced in
the rain without looking
foolish, and seen the stars
unfold like a quilt, pulled
down from the attic. And
it's all I can do right now,
to hope in those weeks of
retreat, where I can stand
full and complete in who
I know I am, without fear
that it'll in some way be
perceived incorrectly.

How I long to be
bright again.

War

His lies are simple and easy,

swallowed without much 

difficulty, accepted without 

much push-back, and I only 

see the truth for what it is 

from the bottom looking up. 

He whispers oh-so quietly 

into my ears when I'm not 

paying attention, preying on 

my idleness, his only aim is

to suck the life out of me. He 

tells me I'm repulsive and 

underwhelming, the sole 

reason you've had to walk

away, and that I'm too 

weak-eyed and spineless 

for you to have ever cared 

for me at all. Undeserving 

and unworthy of you, and 

not enough to help you 

through. He rails on me as 

if he fears what I would do 

if I were allowed to stand up, 

and from the ground I only 

see the pure hatred in his eyes, 

drawing me into his deceit so 

convincingly, and he mocks 

the deepest parts of my soul.
With every day he tells me
you never wanted me at all,
and with every morning he
reminds me of the rejection and
its sting. He tells me your 

words are lies, he promises me
my opinion of you is false,
and he says that I'll always be alone. 

In a life of relational equations 

that always end up in the red, 

he tells me that I'm the common 

denominator. And I know, it's 

only the weakness in me and 

the cunning in him that stops 

me from seeing the truth. 

I promise that I'm trying.

Cold

There are days when only 

tea, and The Scientist 

will do. Through my 

tears and my cup of 

cream earl grey I sing 

"I'm going back to the start."

Tennis

The ball taps the pavement
on your side of this line,
acting as the metronome
to which you make your
next steps, while I am left
with no pace or way to
mark the time. My side of
this court contains nothing
but the wildness of my own
heart, and the chaos of
emotions too big for my
little body to handle, and
I enviously watch you
calculate your every movement
in order, and with thought.
You pick up the phone,
knowing I'm waiting on the
line, but you put it down again,
knowing it's not time,
knowing you're not quite
there yet, and I anxiously
wait for the call that might
never come.

I am strong,
I am strong,
I am strong.

Submarine

Today I caught
a middle-aged bald man
wearing your green
plaid shirt. You know,
my favourite one, with
the pocket over your
heart. He sat in our
usual seat on the subway
from St. George to
Bloor, reading the paper.
I couldn't think of anything
else but the smell of
your green plaid shirt,
and the way your eyes
shone when you looked
at me, holding my hand
as we arrived at the
interchange station,
and the smile on your
face as I shot you my
funny looks. He turned
the pages of the newspaper
while the announcer said
"arriving at Bay, Bay station"
and as he got up to leave
I could do nothing but stare
at his empty seat.

And you were gone.

Paul

Tell me of a single man,
from Genesis to Revelation
that was properly equipped
for his task? Pin point every
instance, where he was
perfectly ready for the call
to which he was given?
Explain to me how he was
wholly able to fulfill his
responsibilities. Because
all I see are pictures of
men who were human and
broken, fallen and completely
incomplete. I see a picture of
David, just a boy with a
handful of stones, and I
see Moses unable to speak
and I see Jacob afraid and
on the run, and I see Paul,
poor and wandering, rejected
and downcast. What makes
you think the Twelve had any
time to prepare for the most
arduous task when Christ asked
them to follow immediately?
When has our God ever been
in the business of calling us to
task "when we're ready?"
But you, you assume the need
for perfection in spades, for
readiness that is only ideal,
and because of the blindness
of your own mind you have
undone your responsibilities,
taken away from your maturity,
let go of your support,
and told God "you're just not ready".

And I sit here and pray with ferocity
that He shows you you're trusting a lie.

Consolation

As my chest rips open again
I beg You to hold me
closer
than you've ever held me
before,
because this sort of confusion
and unrest has never been so
potent.
And you lull me to sleep again
promising
that everything will make sense
in Your time.
You tell me it's not I that has to
see,
not I that has to be
changed,
but it is I that has to
trust.

Trust,
that You are good.

Ice Cream

He took your letters
from my hands, as
I sobbed into the
placemat. He told
me I wasn't allowed
to have them back.
And I just cried as
he put them in his
pocket and he said
"I know, I know."
And the anger in his
eyes, the confusion
and the frustration
towards you was
the perfect picture
of what my own
heart must look like,
and he told me it was
okay to want you back.
But then he said
if you didn't want
me back, then the regret
would last you a lifetime.

And through my tears I prayed,
for the strength to believe that.

Alarm

Even though I must refrain
from dialling your number
at 6:30am, I wake up on
my own, nonetheless, waiting
to hear your groggy morning
voice once again. And in these
days of absolute desperation
and aching, it takes all the
strength in me to lift you up
to someone greater, in order
to control the endless sobbing
and unimaginable pain. So
even though you sleep past
7 and have forgotten the
beauty we'd share at
daybreak and sunset,
I cling to the early morning,
lift my hands to the heavens,
let out all the tears my eyes have left,
and pray for you.
For your peace.
For your clarity.
For you to remember.

For the strength
to get through the day.

Blanket

I push back against the
morning because the
truth has never hit me
so hard before, and I'm
tired of soaking the pillow
case, and I'm running out
of Kleenex. I shove yesterday
out with the fleece blanket,
pulling it over my head to
be covered by you, praying
for the ability to wake up,
praying for the strength to
remember, praying for you
to know how little I want to
live like this, and my chest
aches right in the middle.
I tore it open as you walked
away and let you steal the
most precious thing I have
to give, and now I don't
walk around with life in me.
It is only grace that keeps me
breathing, only mercy that keeps
me upright, and only forgiveness
that pushes me to hope.

And I am awake.

The Fatherless in York

I wonder if he'd see

his mothers brown eyes 

when he looked at me 

and know that I was 

his, or if he would 

notice my crooked smile

and know the only other 

place he's seen that was in 

his high school graduation photo. 

I wonder if he saw me on the subway 

and thought he'd seen me 

somewhere before. Or if 

he thought back to the 

woman he spent a night with 

some 22 years ago 

and wondered if I were 

the evidence. I wonder if 

he entertains the thought of 

walking the same streets as me, 

or if he pushes my existence 

out of his mind. 

Most of all, I wonder 

if he wonders about me at all. 

The Gardner

Plant me in that perfect 

place, where my hands 

first met yours in our 

innocence, where our

hearts aligned and danced

until the morning. Root 

me in the meadow that 

is only meant for you 

and me, where no other 

feet have trod, no other 

name has been whispered, 

where only our love is 

known by the trees. There 

I will flourish under your 

sun, protected by the shade 

only meant for me, watered 

by the words you save, 

nourished by the time you 

invest. Fence me in, 

let me be wild in the confines 

of your heart, and keep me 

forever by your side. 

Cashier

My till is short by
about three hours
and thirty cents
and I know I
counted everything
two and three
times, but my
balance is still
off. Tell me where
the time went,
my dear, because
I'm still here with
the phone off the
hook waiting for
the dial tone to
stop, but it never
seems to end. And
I'm not okay with
this aching, not
okay with this
breaking, and when
my hands never
reach yours, as
far as they stretch,
I'm not okay with
this distance.

I'm not
okay.

To Sleep

If you read my poems
you would know.
I know you haven't,
because of your aching
silence. You've stopped.
And I hope to God
there's a reason why.

Blush

Stop and smell the roses
darling,
before they're doubled
over
with their pretty little
heads
breaking their little
necks,
beaten by the rain,
overwatered
after too much neglect.

They were ever so
perfect
when you planted them,
good-intentioned
but lacking the discipline to
water,
they dried and cracked,
until
the sky opened up and
poured,
drowning the delicate
flowers
in a sea of disappointed hopes.

Stop and smell the roses
darling,
and protect them,
while you still can.

Duvet

My fingers drop the
phone again, as I
decide against my
incessant initiation,
always leaving me
unsatisfied and unsure
of your affections,
while mine become
overwhelmingly
clear.

Please, do not
think you can stop
chasing after me,
just because you've
won my affections.

Old MacDonald

It's not that I'm trying to
convince you to come
home, or make you feel
guilty for missing me
grow, or even remind you
of what you're losing
out on. It's just that I
miss you, more than I
could have ever hoped,
unavoidable at best, and
desperate at worst. And
sometimes I just wish
I could call you after a
bad day, or have tea with
you on a rainy Sunday,
or share my greatest
moments with you.

But you've chosen another life,
other children,
and not me.

Champion

You are my second
thought in the morning,
my first phone call,
my last conversation
before slipping into
sleep, where you are
my champion above
a hundred others, and my
forever-first-choice,
always chasing after
me, and never outrunning
me. You are my constant
reminder of faithfulness,
example of grace and
embodiment of strength,
my hand to hold when
mine are shaking, and
lover of all my broken
parts. You are the only
human on this wide earth
who knows my biggest
secrets, the first one
I write poems about,
and the last voice
I want to hear.

Another poem about you,
and the hope for a thousand more.

Dogwood

Just take me to the river,
I'll pick my bouquet on
the way down, while you
twist dogwood into bands
big enough for our left
ring fingers, and the birds
can be our witnesses as
the rushing water ushers
us into this matrimony
of joy, and then we can
run with the birch trees,
lay on a quilt of crisp
leaves, and fall into love.

And then eventually,
we will sleep.

Wednesday

Sleeping on the subway
while you're driving into
work, on a rainy Wednesday
morning, cities apart.
I dream that you're with me,
sitting in the seat next
to mine, holding my hand
as I doze off, lulled by the
motion of the train. But
you are somewhere else,
not too far but far enough
for me to feel the absence
in my chest, and I open my
eyes to see an asian
grandmother in your seat.
I retreat to my dreams, of
rainy mornings with you,
only to be called back
by an announcer who informs
me that I've arrived at
Union station.

I sigh, and count the hours
until I can feel close to you.

Rockies

Let's take our blankets 

and our summer clothes 

pack them up in canvas 

bags and drive until we 

reach the mountains. 

Because honey, this 

subway car can't fit 

my heart, and these 

streets can't bear my 

restless feet any longer, 

and without your 

hand to keep me on 

the ground, I am most 

certainly a flight risk. 

Honey, let's go to the 

shores of every ocean, 

and make wishes on 

skipping stones, and 

camp under wild skies, 

until we find ourselves 

a home. 

With your red truck 

and my ragged map 

let's find ourselves 

a home. 

Ursa Major

You were in a better place once,
when your medication
balanced you out quite nicely,
and your hands didn't shake
too much. You could still play
piano, alone in the basement
beside the laundry room,
where no one could hear your
cursing, as you tried to sight read
Bach. You socialized with people
who were tolerably normal,
but understood your tendency
to miss weeks of school,
and welcomed you back with
cheering, and spent hours
making you laugh. But now you
only show up to take tests and
sit in desk chairs, no piano
stools or late-night trips
to the woods, telescope in
tow, and when you hold your
pen, it shakes like a leaf in
a gale-force wind, knocking
out your ability to steady
yourself on anything sound.
And I weep for you knowing
that no sweet word can combat
the sourness in your heart,
and no amount of love can
heal your weary mind--
at least none that our human
hands can offer you.

I only pray that someday soon
you are able to look at stars again.

Magician

He reached into the
hat and pulled out
my name in order to
show me that the
choice was more than
his own. But what
he forgot to mention
is that the hat was
full to the brim with
pieces of paper with
no one else's name
on them but mine.

Canary

I love that we can
measure the duration
of our love affair in
chapters of the Bible,
each one a week,
with hour-long
phone calls about
what James meant when
he said "count it all joy",
and 6am wake up calls
to pray while we're still
in bed. I love that we
can calculate the depth
of our love in the minutes,
hours, and days, that we
refrain from holding
each other, endless miles
keep us apart, but
only in physical distance
because you live in the
cabin of my heart and
I am a bird in your ribcage.

I swing and you smoke,
but we both sing.

Held

And though my heart beats

steadily in my cathedral chest
I feel stalled, like a broken city
bus on a busy city street,
that never leads to your
front door. I am unable to
inhale without feeling short
of breath, gasping under the
weight of missing you,
clawing for the surface in
this ocean of what it is to
be without you, and though
my desperation comes in and
out like the tide of the sea,
I remember that loving you
is a more beautiful kind of
agony. It gnaws at my ribcage
bounces in my lungs,
tears at my limbs--hands that
long to touch, feet that long to
follow.

My love, do not withhold
yourself from me.

Novel

And you waned as quickly
as you waxed, my dear. You
were as bright as the moon
and as warm as the sun on
my face, the morning I first
learned you were on your
way, but now you're so far
from me. My belly tells the
story but no more is being
written. The pages have
stopped turning, and the
pen has been put down,
but my dear, you've been
etched on my heart, scarred
to the inside of my stomach,
engraved in my eyes with
every sight of you, I've seen
your name in my mind,
heard your voice in my ears
and held your hand, in my own.
Now the only story being
written, my dear, is the one
in which I start my life
again, with no recollection
of the moon or the sun.

And I wonder if I'll ever remember
who I was before I knew you.

Bell Tower

Please do not become
another crushed sunflower
stepped on by the boots of
tragedy, or picked up by
a farmer's hands only to
be stripped of all your petals,
in his desperate search for love
in the answers you can yield.

Please do not become
a hollow frame of the woman
you are. You are a bell
tower full of ringing words
and a woodland brimming
with ferocious life,
because when you light up,
you're not easily put out.

Please do not become
the bird in the coo coo clock,
the rag doll left in the attic
to collect dust with the rest
of your childhood dreams,
never touched by loving hands
or held by inviting arms.
Please.

Your heart is too glorious
to be quiet.

Hadean

You come to the door with your 

bag of tricks, impressive and 

promising, trying to coax me with 

your viles and bottles, 

and sometimes you succeed. 

Today I swallowed your cough 

syrup without any sugar, then 

choked on your disease while 

you eagerly watched on. You 

work as the Devil's apothecary

and you prescribe my destruction 

with a stained smile breaking 

your hardened face, made of 

clay and paint, moulded after 

your master. You have his voice. 

To your credit, your deception 

was quite veiled, behind a fit 

of self-pity and guilt--I almost 

deemed you innocent, until the 

glint in your eye caught mine 

as the spoon came off of my 

lead tongue and when your  

smile turned wry, I knew I'd 

made a mistake. So as I purge 

your poison from my body I 

pray to remember this moment, 

so when you come knocking again, 

with your medicine in hand, 

I'll know to slam the proverbial 

door in your houndish face. 

Divine Affair

I will always want
your divided attention.
Split down the middle,
but sometimes wavering
to one side, never
fully fixed on me,
because I can only
give you the same
in return. We both
have another Love
to be wooed by, and
I wouldn't have it
any other way.

The only way I will be yours,
is if you are His.

Kiss

Kiss me when you see my eyes
look up at you in that secret way,
when you've just heard me
tell you my biggest dream,
when you remember all our
history, with one brush of my
hand. Kiss me when you know
no one is watching, and
kiss me when you feel the
urgency. Kiss me when my
tears fall like tea cups on a
tile floor, oh kiss me when you
know you're one step closer
to being sure. Don't kiss me
when you feel starved and don't
kiss me when you feel weak,
but kiss me when you know
nothing else will do,
no words and no signals
can relay what you feel,
and you only have one more
way to tell me.

And like everything else thus
far, I'll leave the timing up to
you.

Crown

I will slow
to see the day
wrapped up in
gold and emerald,
a crown among other
more treacherous days
that I can barely remember
here in the promise of another
life. Your smile is the warm sun,
and your eyes are the sea-blue sky
covering up all my fear and doubt,
blanketing me in the hope I barely
afforded myself until now.
You change the rules,
teach me another
way to breathe
and I will slow,
to see you
face to
face.

King Edward

You have the same first name
as the first boy I ever kissed.
On the cheek after school,
eight years old, bolder than
most. Scribbled notes
passed back and forth
inklings of love, too young
and too foolish, misguided
and premature.

You have the same first name
as the first boy I ever kissed.
Thirteen years ago, under the
streetlamp. And I ran away.
Ran towards your two arms,
waiting for me all this time,
hands that write me pages
of sweet words, outstretched
to draw me in.

And for the first time I wonder
if this could be it.

Overheads

Excuse me for a second,
I just have to stick my head
between my legs to stop the
racing thoughts and the heavy
breathing, to quell the vivid
flashbacks. Back to nights
I cried myself to sleep over
a man who hated to pray,
though he forced the rosary
into my hand, asking me to
decipher the will of God
with my own cold fingers--folded.

It's not that you resemble him,
because you couldn't look more
different. Your voice sounds
a hundred years old, and your
heart could love all my broken
pieces, and your hands reach
parts of me I only let God
touch, but you must see,
I'm a wounded soul that doesn't
forget and I beg you for
patience, because dealing with
me could prove more challenging
than you thought.

Just know,
I'm more than willing,
to rewrite our nightmares
together.

Maple

And you will ask me
what is wrong, why I've
been crying all night, and
why I haven't slept at all,
and I'll give you some
BS answer about
my childhood and my
problems with sadness, but
really it's because you
poured syrup all over my
heart with your sweet words,
wooing me with your gentleness
and care, though your
intentions are far from
clear. It's really because
you took someone as fragile
as me, and made me out
to be stronger than I am
in order to do your damage
without to great a guilt.
I don't know if you mean
for this to be how it ends,
but if you have some plan
to show the congruency of
your actions, then I invite you
to make it known.

I'm dying here.

Put Up

Spit her back out like
an old favourite
you're not allowed to have
anymore,
but just a taste will do,
just a taste will suffice.
You won't gulp,
because
you know once she
hits your system you'll be
infected.
You can't let them know
you're still just as weak
or you'll give up
whatever respect
you've earned in being
abstinent.
But I see you, teasing fate
toeing the line,
feet in both camps,
red handed
and innocent,
all at the same time,
and I have no choice
but to put up and shut up.

Boughs

You light old fires
with wet leaves and
damp sticks, hoping
to ignite some grand
forest fire in order to
feel validated, worth
something, still able
to captivate. But you
don't realize that
you weren't really
that captivating to
begin with. You just
threw the driest
needled branches
onto the flames
and made everyone
watch the show,
only to throw some
more on, as soon
as it started to
dwindle. You are
temporary,
you are fleeting,
and you're running
out of pine boughs.