The

parlour empties after the third song.
You tell me

you need a cigarette and dump the accordion on my lap.
The fog seeps in as you

open the front door
and I worry because you’re wearing black.

I worry because you’ve never offered me a cigarette
or asked

to go for a walk at midnight.
The champagne sticks to my fingers
and I wished I’d grabbed your hand
and said
“I’ll go with you.”

the musician on stage in front of a

rack of shoes looks like you,
although it may be

the fog of the free beer.
It smells like the 70s and even though I
never experienced it firsthand,

the red velvet pants on the rack next to me
take me back in time.
Surrounded by a trio of girls in striped shirts –
the three blind mice –
**** on lollipops
and there are too many jean jackets to count.

I can’t stop thinking about my arms around your neck
on a park bench

let’s go to Niagara Falls, or Pompeii

there are some soaps in the shape of fingers at the store next door
and I can wrap them around your arms
while we listen to Born Ruffians
and they’ll sing:

It ***** when you find someone
but they don’t find you.

you

tried on my suit that night to
“see

how much space you took up” in it
your yellow dress looked like a hazard in the

moonlight.
turn head once, twice
your slight hands, like china,
foreign now.
In January, you tasted like cinnamon.
Now, in

August you taste like wheat.

You fold my sweaters like packages
and always offer to peel my oranges.

To you, attacks and bombs have rendered me incapable.

My mind is your Brillo pad,
and like my suit -
overwhelmed and ill-fitting -
I don’t see you in it.

the first

time I taste it is on the subway going southbound to Osgoode Station,

red as sweet and sour sauce, incandescent and pure.
You hold it to my

lips and watch as I inhale its bitter air.
The last time is one hour ago,
when you push me to my knees and force

it down my throat.
It tastes like cotton.
You look at me with eyes like a disapproving parent
and I scrape away to its core.
I feel

the acid slide down my throat as you shove me
over the couch and watch me writhe.
Your serpent.
I wear the same blue and yellow dress as the subway ride.
It gathers at my hips now,
as I clutch at my throat
and look at my prince.

a schoolgirl found me in
High Park with my hands
clutched to my chest
on a red

sheet, under a dead cherry blossom
the dress I was wearing was
the one you gave me to celebrate

our underwhelming tax rebate
and the fact that I was eating again
the examiner said I looked
apathetic,

like dying was the next item on my to-do list

I could have sworn I had only taken
                           2
                         (22)
pink

ones to match the blossoms
the *** sleeping on the bench was my new best friend
and the barista at Starbucks asked for my name

and I realized
I hadn’t been asked that in months;
                       my name
                      my blood type
                      my ETA
what colour was the mole on my stomach?
and when did I first learn to

ride a bike?

the last time I smiled was
June 17, 2013.
In the paper they put a picture of it
and wrote “Woman Found”
they should’ve put a close-up
of my hollow eyes.

like the

Rialto, the Grand Canal flows underneath me.
Even as I hold my back

in my hands, I can no longer support my discretions.
Sixteen.
Twenty-one.
Thirty-three.
How

did I have the space?
You would think it would be engraved across my pelvis:
“wrap it up”
before you
hold me down

I ran with lit matches as a girl,
waiting until the flame kissed my thumb and forefingers
puckered pink under the surface.
I enjoy the boils left

behind by my recklessness:
every bruise from a fence **** and
every pebble-sized bump from my head
hitting the roof of a Camaro
sat underneath my skin,
just like Lil’ A
       B
       C
and I can lie flat
as the canal rushes over.

bare chested and open to the sky, I wish I knew what

it felt like to see the future. At this moment, all I know

is that the rocks are making grooves in my shoulder blades
and my ******* may very well be burning. It’s time to turn

over; try facing the earth and be captivated by ants
traipsing across the rock.
Minutae.
Mundane.
The tide may swell over and engulf me, fresh, to rock me gently

maybe underwater I’ll catch a glimpse of strong words
or the place where I die.
I’ll see my lover amongst the seaweed
and our children laying in shells.
But on my back, by this

sea, I hear friends praising each other in French
and see the sun’s outline when I close my eyes.
I am still 23 with purple fingernails and shaved legs.
I am no closer to the water.