The Poems


From the Winter, 2012–2013, issue 

(No. 29)

They met at a phone-book-ripping contest,

while outside the auditorium, spring was a promise,

the day was breaking.

He carried a Ouija board for whenever

he wanted to say something controversial,

drove in a way she could only describe as theatrical.

She was investigating the game Battleship

as the perfect metaphor for love,

said a number of self-publishing companies

were currently uninterested.

Then, at his house, naked as a candle flame,

she spoke as though she were in a phone booth,

both feet up against the door.

And later, at her enormously small apartment,

she said, “Beer is technically a bread-flavoured soda,”

and he laughed until it tore out his nose.