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My Poems
Poems

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Poems

Ragdolls

All day long, we sit on the crumbling wall of the cemetery. Our feet clad in mud-crusted Mary Janes, dangle inches above the wild grass. There is silence, a blanket of windless heat punctuated by the cawing of crows and the chattering of squirrels, until the first fat bullets of rain lodge themse...

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Portrait of a Heart

The surgeon cuts through the tumour in one precise slash, and a yellow door spills out. I believe it is from our first home, complete with a brass knocker and name plaque pieced together with cowrie-shells. The scrubs bend down as he points at something swathed in blood clots. ‘That’s just th...

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Unlost

Someday, you may find the rain knocking on your window, seeking shelter for the night. 'I am being hunted like a wild beast,' it may say in a small voice dripping with the smell of desolation and musty fables. You have known it your entire life—this rain that once was lemon scented and starligh...

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Let there be light

He loved sparrows. And when the last one goes limp in his cold-creased-tired palm, he scrounges far and wide for the perfect alloy and the right gears. The quest for a power source that would last an eternity and is small enough to fit inside a dainty body leads him to the algorithm of body heat and...

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Didn’t it Rain?

She places a hand over her bare belly and peers into the full-length mirror. It isn't swollen yet, but she can feel the fetus growing inside her. For as long as she can remember, she has avoided looking too deep or for too long into a mirror - afraid of what she might find looking back at her. Bu...

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Seventeen Years Later

The houses by the river with their coloured walls, shingled roofs, and manicured gardens are still the same. An occasional bark from behind a dark window or the quiver of a floral curtain are the only signs that the houses are occupied. The one at the end of the road, however, with peeling paint and...

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Haiku

early morning . . . a tree's foliage bursts into parakeets mustard fields a thimbleful of sun on each blossom cashmere scarf – the smell of mothballs in our kiss wilting irises – I turn up the volume in an empty house spring cleaning - dusting the cobwebs from my shadow ...

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Tanka

the shape of her face on the pillow ... it's been a while since I tried to hold moonbeams in my palm embers on the tip of your tongue I trace the fall of a morning star on your bare midriff bullet holes on the mountain face ... for five bucks a post-card of the valley before guns t...

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