Keith Inman – p. 36

tourniquet

the first tug was at the corner store when the cashier stared at billy as if the word criminal was stamped on his forehead

armpits soaked and out on bail he bought chips and left

the second like a weight of thread dragged across his vein was the detective sergeant after the trial her hand shaking his in the back hall out of view of just about everyone as she said

thought you’d like to know he goes after girls with single moms your girlfriend was our third

pulse against pressure

then the section door sliced closed to a central guard behind glass and a bank of monitors

billy noticed the inmate cleaning floors whispering to the standing guard who whispered back as they stared at him cut off

Ted Amsden

What is a Snowflake?

I am snowflake: mandala on your fingertip rain in a cloaking device water’s alter ego winter’s smallest biscuit a tongue treat on a winter’s day cold storage’s perfect edible.

And I delight in my many costumes: a rainbow prism for sunshine the taste of northern air the sparkling dust of moonlight.

And, yes, I fully acknowledge that I am what you’ve always wanted to be — perfect.

The dazzle of diamonds in the slant of me. The waves of wind in my gathering.

Who else can park a gazillion examples of “small but beautiful” on your front lawn at a moment’s notice?

Okay... I’m your worst nightmare when I hang with my buddies.

What glue is to your mouth, we are to your driveway. What is a white cat on your head, that is us on your roof. But just like that thick blanket on your bed, we keep your fields warm.

And while you may want to see the last of me and my kind

admit it ... when I float and twist rise ‘n’ fall scurry on currents of air

you love me!

Portrait of a New Year

News, you say? What news? It’s 2022. That’s the news.

It’s become academic about the pandemic. Your task is to mask. Keep your distance. Ensure your existence.

And admit, only alcoholics frolic with CBC & CNN.

So walk your dog, cut another log. At your age, read another page. In the Garden of Dead & Passing Narratives, ARt & Nature reign.

This is the year we leave the future behind.

The tyranny of get it right, the bad behaviour of objects, the clown who calls itself, “you”

box and toss.

I will throw roses into the Grand Canyon. I will fire sentences at loneliness. I will charm darkness with the sweet sound of my voice.

It’s 2022… It’s Time ladies!

Be all you can be and then some.