The Back of His License

George Murray


I woke up sweating in the new
year’s darkness, worried
about Trump’s organs.
I realize it’s unlikely he signed
his card, but if he did,
perhaps accidentally
autographing on autopilot,
How impoverished would a body
have to be to not reject them?
Imagine driving around
with Trump’s liver in you,
his spleen, his kidney, his marrow,
grafts of his skin like orange
bandages over your old burns.
His tendons creaking in your legs,
his lungs sucking up air, slack
face stapled to your skull
like a Halloween mask,
a stubby-fingered hand dangling
gratefully from your stump, needing
years of physio to grab again.
How could you ever be sure
of what you see with his eyes
sending light to your brain,
or why your pulse keeps rising
with his heart bumping
against your ribs? How could you
sit at a red light, running
your fingers through that hair?
I get it, you’re desperate.
You signed on your own line
and bought the best lemon you could
afford at the time.
And if his pink Cadillac parts fit
your chugging Dodge,
who cares? So long as you get
one more chance to arrive home,
hold your kids, kiss your wife.
Maybe with his hands or open mouth.









cake | fish counter

Emily Sanford










Mark Laliberte













T F2

Gary Barwin









from Barcode Poetry

Kyle Flemmer













from a a novel

Derek Beaulieu











A little note on passing by

catherine owen


For us it’s fine the forests are empty
And the seas are merely picturesque residue.

We have been taught appearance is everything
And cannot resign our mirrors now.

The train is five minutes away from Oshawa
And on the first Metro of the morning

A man called Raymond ate a sandwich, crumbs
Constellating his overalls.

We are thanked for depositing our garbage
In the bin but have no idea where it goes

And enjoy our beautiful ignorance.
Why not write a Frank O’Hara poem?

Sometimes life is just a series of events
With filaments less than more connecting.

Like now when I am served my soup
In a random Scottish pub and ask for only

A small amount of pepper while it starts
To snow thin as litter and a woman pronounces

Certain as Li Po: “It’s the intelligent people
That are truly dangerous when they’re stupid.”








Modern Saviour

Katie Fewster-Yan


Good god, your hat is amazing.
Please hold onto it. Please secure
the woollen strings with the baubles
tight beneath your chin. Not too tight.
I know this is a world in which it’s easy
to forget your sneakers at the door
and wander barefoot, maybe naked,
to the corner store to exclaim
that there’s a man inside your neck
licking his one long fingernail, honing
it like a scythe along your spine.
But he won’t barter for a round blue
lollipop, for a two-pack of batteries,
a cigarette, or a small yellow pail.
I know that Wednesday
is as good a day as any to gather
all your underpants and toss them out
the third story window, or the eighth,
the nineteenth, twenty-second, forty-sixth!
What heights these cities will allow.
Please do not hie after them. Please keep
your arms and legs inside the vehicle
so I can seal you in. You and I,
we’re going to take a drive together north
until we’re shadowed by sharp walls
of the glacier-carved valley, until the moon
glows above us like the ancient stone it is.
We will allow the perfect flakes
of snow to asterisk our arms like markings
gesturing to notes we cannot write
or think or say. It is cold. I don’t need
to see your hair to trust that it is there
curling out of you like a sombre animal.
You’ll confess you took your name
for granted, never questioned
the significance of capital letters.
And I will lay upon your shoulder
like a field of emerald grass.








An expanse of shivering bright

Klara du Plessis



Through my tears
I understand more clearly
tinkering membranes
isn’t it strange
how the eyes are objects
that one can’t see while seeing through
them, then tears, being another
transparent substance,
but supposedly blurring
vision, it’s a lie because right now
tears close off nearsightedness so
I can look into my skull, in reverse
that’s their purpose.


The idea that one eye always
cries shorter than the other
shorter in duration, shorter in the
distance it runs down cheek, shorter
in the gesture of wiping away
with the right hand
in a single swipe from left to right.






Neighbours are Wormholes

Claire Kelly