Karla Comanda

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 »


Rain is blurring windshields and spitting from streetside sewers the day Benoît arrives at the airport. His nut-coloured face floats abreast of the huddle of arrivals and when he sees me he smiles with almond eyes squashing upwards, showing … more »