Karla Comanda

Burning eyes,
open wide—
I could be you too,
despite the tears
and eyes as dry
as a seahorse
on an apothecary table
the Chinatown sky.

David Ly is a writer, poet, Master of Publishing student at SFU, and more »

My mother left me a suitcase of sweaters

she knitted in mohair, wool, acrylic
in blends of burnished ochre
bright carmine, sombre blue, sea green.

I see her now in her favourite red chair
by the front window
her feet … more »

To see my mother slip away—
like witnessing time being reassembled,
the missing hands being reattached,
the frozen hours and minutes retrieved
from the crumbled heap,
put back in their primordial order,
its internal organs of spring and coil
mounted … more »

The peaks of Grouse Mountain melt, stare across a recitation; in clusters
like caressing thinkers or /small /mammals in the matter the stencil of
woods regressed, laid flat like the ingrown nail-speaking breath
on the floor – where prints that … more »