creeping
the virginia creeper rattles its
fingers against the glass every
night I dream of hands cold
on mine synchronized as
beats per minute tapped
on a window pane
as creeper tries to pry window
screen from frame do you
think of me this often?
think of tangled vine and
brocade wallpaper we peel
away in tendril strips
annual returns of black and
cool blue fruit pecked clean bare
by the corvidae who roost
on windowsills to feed I would
pick one to taste if only death
were as sweet as it seemed would
wet my lips with dark wine
I become a leaf red and curled
into itself brittle another winter waiting
yours for good
as creepers shed leaves
litter the parking lot
I have braced myself for the worst, and yet it has not come
movement is inevitable
somehow— destiny, every motion inescapable.
each time I corner myself it feels less like an accident.
asking : how can I show the exquisite motion of car 4 train 51 toronto-bound, the ice beaches, the power lines, the cold of the rivers?
touch wood / don’t jinx it / not to tempt fate, but
this winter may not be so bad. the hay bales are stacked neatly in their shelters and there is something comforting, something lovely and soothing in preparedness.
the world is dense
trees stark on grey de-alienate me, and I
think of palms pressed rougher than remembered.
when remembering is rough let
cold air tell you about hometown maples.
the opposite of immersion is excision.
birds flock, land on power lines twisted
metal and graffiti billboards like flashing
eyes of the city, I see you CN tower I see.
at times, remembering is enough
and at times all you can do is keep your
breathing syncopated, keep from
breaking apart, from
scattering your thousand pieces.
love is a snare that keeps us
suspended by each nylon string.
everything is a trap if you love it enough.
you sound trapped
I figured myself only in buildings, convenient
like a bus stop or mall or 24-hour grocery.
I was made bosquet by pruning shears
trimmed and uniform but am now other.
I am wondering how to unbecome my conqueror
not be the snare round my own trickster throat.
I now picture my heart and soft insides a rabbit
screaming in the field, kept out of the garden.
I have seen the bone-dry decay, the dust of
indifference settled woollen and comforting.
I know that winking apartments each are
a secret and in each a private life.
I am ringed with funereal weeds in the asphalt
and carve out space under bruise-black clouds.
My parts are assembled in the stands of trees
lining the highway whose arms hang mist-heavy.
Mia Morgan is a Palestinian-Canadian writer and co-founder of Coven Editions small press. Her long poem Suburbia was published as a tiny book in by In/Words press, and her
work has appeared in Bywords, Battleaxe, and some other places. She is a
member of & co. collective and the Arc Poetry Magazine board.
the virginia creeper rattles its
fingers against the glass every
night I dream of hands cold
on mine synchronized as
beats per minute tapped
on a window pane
as creeper tries to pry window
screen from frame do you
think of me this often?
think of tangled vine and
brocade wallpaper we peel
away in tendril strips
annual returns of black and
cool blue fruit pecked clean bare
by the corvidae who roost
on windowsills to feed I would
pick one to taste if only death
were as sweet as it seemed would
wet my lips with dark wine
I become a leaf red and curled
into itself brittle another winter waiting
yours for good
as creepers shed leaves
litter the parking lot
I have braced myself for the worst, and yet it has not come
movement is inevitable
somehow— destiny, every motion inescapable.
each time I corner myself it feels less like an accident.
asking : how can I show the exquisite motion of car 4 train 51 toronto-bound, the ice beaches, the power lines, the cold of the rivers?
touch wood / don’t jinx it / not to tempt fate, but
this winter may not be so bad. the hay bales are stacked neatly in their shelters and there is something comforting, something lovely and soothing in preparedness.
the world is dense
trees stark on grey de-alienate me, and I
think of palms pressed rougher than remembered.
when remembering is rough let
cold air tell you about hometown maples.
the opposite of immersion is excision.
birds flock, land on power lines twisted
metal and graffiti billboards like flashing
eyes of the city, I see you CN tower I see.
at times, remembering is enough
and at times all you can do is keep your
breathing syncopated, keep from
breaking apart, from
scattering your thousand pieces.
love is a snare that keeps us
suspended by each nylon string.
everything is a trap if you love it enough.
you sound trapped
I figured myself only in buildings, convenient
like a bus stop or mall or 24-hour grocery.
I was made bosquet by pruning shears
trimmed and uniform but am now other.
I am wondering how to unbecome my conqueror
not be the snare round my own trickster throat.
I now picture my heart and soft insides a rabbit
screaming in the field, kept out of the garden.
I have seen the bone-dry decay, the dust of
indifference settled woollen and comforting.
I know that winking apartments each are
a secret and in each a private life.
I am ringed with funereal weeds in the asphalt
and carve out space under bruise-black clouds.
My parts are assembled in the stands of trees
lining the highway whose arms hang mist-heavy.
