In celebration of National Poetry Month I’ll be writing and posting a poem a day for the entirety of April. No haikus. Nothing about wheat, unless fermented. All of the poems can be found here.

He had fantasies about being left at the altar,
so when on their wedding day she married
the pharmacist instead, he felt a sense of joy.

He apologized to the priest, and hugged his mother,
went home and trimmed back the brush,
buried their secrets in the neighbour’s back yard.

She took the cat, which freed up his afternoons.
She left all the collars, and a credit card debt.
Her fathers called often, one confused and one drunk.

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In celebration of National Poetry Month I’ll be writing and posting a poem a day for the entirety of April. No haikus. Nothing about wheat, unless fermented. All of the poems can be found here.

1. The man across from them was naked,
save for a pair of mauve Speedos that he wore as a mask,
and a silver wedding band on his right hand.

He was dancing to an absent song,
a ghost of memory he shared alone.

I wish I hadn’t seen this, she thought.
And yet, she couldn’t turn away.
It was beautiful, and she felt, for the first time
what an accountant might describe as love.

2. “Who’s gay though? the gorillas? the flight attendants?
Are the flight attendants fucking gorillas?”

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In celebration of National Poetry Month I’ll be writing and posting a poem a day for the entirety of April. No haikus. Nothing about wheat, unless fermented. All of the poems can be found here.

He was a former provincial badminton star,
and she was a former Presbyterian atheist.
They met at a secondhand bookstore in Guelph,
where he fell for her subtle modern curves
as she stole a copy of Mrs. Hollingsworth’s Men.

They went for coffee, and she ordered rum.
She said, “It’s easy to duplicate mistakes,
but near impossible to perfect them.”
He said, “You’re beautiful, but I may not be
fearless enough to keep you happy.”

They agreed to take it slow
stealing from housewives,
and some heavy petting.
Soon, they were in love,
and stealing foreign cars.

In just a few weeks they were at a chapel
in Niagara Falls, amused by the cliché.
He slid his grandmother’s ring on her finger,
which he kept on him at all times
in cases of emergency or love.

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In celebration of National Poetry Month I’ll be writing and posting a poem a day for the entirety of April. No haikus. Nothing about wheat, unless fermented. All of the poems can be found here.

The policemen were celiac, and the children were scared.
Beignets betrayed themselves to rice flour, but baked anyway.
We corrupted our damaged smiles with cane sugar and pilsner,
the rains arrived at five-thirty, and never bothered to leave.

Women began to dance dance dance, and just couldn’t stop.
Men with goatees were hanged at dawn, the mustachioed spared but helpless.
Dogs turned on their owners, and started sleeping in the beds.
The cats admitted all their mistakes, slowly, but with a quiet gospel.

The fish left the oceans, and discovered they didn’t need water.
The whales remained behind, as they liked the solace and salt.
The music stopped, but the bands all kept playing,
and when asked about bananas, the simians all laughed.

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