7/12/2020 POETRY: AMY LEBLANCYERSINIA PESTIS IN ALBERTA During the bubonic plague, Thieves’ Oil (a blend of clove, lemon, cinnamon, eucalyptus, and rosemary) was placed on hands, ears, temples, feet, and inside of beak-like masks to avoid catching the plague. Clove: It will be manageable at first. a brief tremor in the arms and legs, squirrels will drop from electrical wires and robins will lose their voice. The pain will be no brighter than a flickering candle at first. Lemon: A man on a podium will tell you not to worry. The men behind will nod. They will post signs telling you to exercise reasonable precautions. Cinnamon: You will sink your body beneath bathwater. You can ignore the darkness in the sides of your ribcage. You cannot avoid the shadows on your fingertips. Eucalyptus: It will get better before it gets worse. To contain the infection, gathering in groups will be prohibited. The tremors will return and they will be violent. You must always wear long pants to keep the insects from your ankles. Rosemary: If you find dead birds, leave them be. Avoid physical contact-- it can spread through saliva of the infected. Wrap black thread around fingertips to keep the sickness contained: Stay home, live alone, and abstain. Amy LeBlanc is an MA student in English Literature and creative writing at the University of Calgary and Managing Editor at filling Station magazine. Amy's debut poetry collection, I know something you don’t know, was published with Gordon Hill Press in March 2020. Her novella "Unlocking" will be published by the UCalgary Press in their Brave and Brilliant Series in 2021. Her work has appeared in Room, PRISM International, and the Literary Review of Canada among others. She is a recipient of the 2020 Lieutenant Governor of Alberta Emerging Artist Award.
7/12/2020 POETRY: MANAHIL BANDUKWALAI WAKE WHEN THE BIRDS TELL ME THEY WANT TO DREAM i. a form gathers sweat on every surface skin touch feathers touch skin pull wings apart leave pile of quills outside bedroom window hot air blows around ii. it is springtime animals come out of hiding iii. i try for lucidity through sachets of promised tea aftermath of sex lies in warm laundry piles bird tells me not to worry it sings a melody in my ear just before i wake i can’t help but listen iv. the bird is the first to believe me when i say i spun clouds into silkworms the night before every house was a beacon lit up beyond mesh behind reflection of candlelight in smokescreened sky v. chlorophyll can’t handle early dawn rays vi. i match the bird’s tune with a wooden flute it tells me please stop some songs are not mine to play Manahil Bandukwala is a writer and visual artist. Her most recent project, Reth aur Reghistan, is a collaboration with her sister, Nimra, in which they research folklore from Pakistan and interpret it through poetry and sculpture. See more about the project at sculpturalstorytelling.com. She is the author of two chapbooks, Paper Doll (Anstruther Press, 2019) and Pipe Rose (battleaxe press, 2018). She was the 2019 winner of Room magazine's Emerging Writer Award, and was longlisted for the 2019 CBC Poetry Prize.
7/11/2020 POETRY: EMILY SCHULtZONLY THE SUN Who will notice when this leaf is gone? It is only a leaf, tiny, trembling, green; tomorrow’s auburn. No one will know. Only the bird will know. Who will notice when this love is gone? It is only a love, a ghost thing with no edges or shape. No one will know. Only I will know. Who will notice when this song is gone? It is only a song, one sound set beside another like a pair of shoes. No one will know. Only we will know. Who will notice when the sun is gone? It is only a sun, a hole of gold burned in an endless sky. No one will know. Only the dark will know. PROTEST I wake up with a protest sign on my chest in my own bed, no chanters or marchers near. I wake up to the sound of the ocean rattling like paper unfolding, the clear voices of unseen birds. I wake up in a fast-moving vehicle on a highway-- sun choosing the passenger side, the green blurred trees an anonymous crowd, a hum of uncertainty. I wake up to the sound of people arguing. I wake up already peeing into a toilet; the mirror has aged me. I wake up in an apartment I used to rent years ago, though the wallpaper has changed and I can’t be sure I’m not a ghost. Somehow the same things propel me forward. I wake up to the small hole a cigarette makes, a punctuation mark in someone else’s turmoil. The sandy snake of smoke climbs the wall. I wake up on a bus between countries and for a minute I’ve forgotten my own name, just a dry mouth and a body, a set of eyes. I wake up to the blind gray face of a mountain; though I have never gone mountain climbing I’m wearing the boots for it. I stretch, look around. It appears I have all the equipment and it’s a new day. Emily Schultz will publish her newest novel, Little Threats, in fall 2020 with GP Putnam’s Sons. Her novel, The Blondes, released in Canada with Doubleday, in the U.S. with Picador, in France with Editions Alto and Editions Asphalte. Named a Best Book of 2015 by NPR and Kirkus, it recently became a scripted podcast starring Madeline Zima. Her poems have appeared in
Minola Review, rust + moth, Humber Literary Review, and Taddle Creek. |
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