depression is often compared to falling down an endless hole.
but
it’s actually more like a hot air balloon,
launched by those who tell you to change.
change your looks, your personality
be yourself, they say
not like that, they say
you let them launch your balloon
believing they’re trying to help you fit in
and you watch them grow smaller
as you slowly rise into the atmosphere
until the oxygen grows as thin
as the strings holding together your sanity
and you panic and scratch at the balloon
trying to poke a hole, thinking only about descent,
and your fingertips begin to bleed
and your wrists are cut on the harsh nylon ropes
and you collect scars because you can’t collect your thoughts
and all you want to do is fall
so you jump
and as you’re falling, you feel good.
you feel free.
but as you plummet towards earth and you can see the ground you begin to regret and spread your arms, desperately flapping but it’s too
late
and you hit the floor with a sickening,
bone shattering
crunch
then you float back up to the sky that ended you
and you see
your family
friends
teachers, everybody who’s ever loved you and maybe even hated you feel the ripples of force as you hit the ground
and they scream and rush to your side
trying to help
trying to do what they tell themselves they would have done
if only they had known, if only you had told them
but you felt silly and invalidated and you didn’t want anybody to see
and you didn’t think they would have saved you
so you kept it in and stayed in your balloon until it was too much
the oxygen was running out
with your will to live
but those who are alive cry
tears falling as quickly as you did from the sky
hitting the ground with splashes nowhere near as loud as the crash
that cut your life short
running their fingers over the scars that you hid
the pain that you endured up there in the atmosphere, hidden among long sleeves and fluffy white clouds and fake smiles
and they wonder why they allowed
you to go up in the balloon in the first place
and they begin to blame
not each other, but themselves
and some launch balloons of their own
telling themselves that they’re just grieving,
just wanting to see what you did in your final moments
but their balloons spiral out of control and
they find themselves falling
just as you did

the concrete beneath our feet
turned to **** rugs peeking between
our toes.

headlights from a passing car
illuminate what is already clear
as you pull my waist in closer.

music drifts in the background
as words unspoken
spark creation under the soft
sounds of our eyes meeting.

He speaks the language of flowers
Quietly toiling in his garden
Digging, raking and smoothing soil,
Gently coaxing nature to match his vision.
He knows the bees, spiders, beetles, worms and earwigs
Regarding them as friends.
He follows seasons, moon and stars
As others do people
Enthralled at the changes they bring.
He listens as the birds sing
Watching with joy as
Fledgling take wing.

I thought I heard
               Canadian slang
from the opposite bed-side
Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face.
Inner space bleeding outward,
deep red, a nosebleed,
angled points on white of The Maple Jack.
               A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel.

Grab your runners and toque,
               it's warm, but not forever
and these legs are sore. Polar bears
on the sweater you wore in the Fall--
Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws.
Awoke and wanted warmth lacking.
I thought I heard Canadian slang.

I thought I heard "it'll be okay"
from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling.
     they whisper and screams sink deep behind
                                     eyelids
                                     closing.
A sentence unfinished,
                sinking in flesh
                              in time
                sinking
                              in snow and ice
                sinking
                              in water in Summer
                sinking
                              in memory.

I thought I heard
               plans being made
and shy laughter.
I heard it 5 times. Didn't I?
Days fade, ears dull*
Walking on streets, in the cold
towards her home
I thought I heard laughter--
                                   heard something
                        like laughter--
I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water.

I thought I heard laughter.

I thought I heard wax melt.
I thought I smelled fairness.
I thought you wanting more time
to bleed and blur tenses.
I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring
                                                 their battle cries--
--asserting their presence.
I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime
                    and late March walk along bridges.

I could swear I heard something
     Like Canadian slang,
                 sweet
                     water
                  light
                      laughter.
Som­ething.

AUNTIE MABEL COMES TO TOWN

she was long
in a wide way
3 seats across

when she laughed
all of her laughed
an earthquake of flesh

she had a chin
underneath her chin
and then another chin

when she hugged you
her ******* surrounded you
took you prisoner

once she stumbled
tumbled on to the cat
we had to get another cat

the cat
was like a horror movie
only realer

was always afraid
she would tumble onto me
I didn't want to be a real horror movie

the cat said nothing
all his lives
squashed flat

I liked Auntie Mabel but
she had whiskey kisses
spat when she spoke

always glad when she's gone
I feel I have somehow survived
an act of God