Do you still dream about an ice cold body stiff
as stone? The image like tiny pebbles
filled your throat. Your smile, silt
on the stem of a hooked crooked flower Do you remember
the year bitumen squirt out your green grass backyard–? Filled your kiddie pool
with toxic sludge.
Obtrusive eyelashes, the still water
radiated in cross luminescent cat calls
in the picketed yards of our suburbia. we were never alone
And the sun…. it pierced through any half-assed movement or thought.
With indifference for time passing you were raw,
always sprawled out on some lawn chair.
That was how I knew you best.
Arms outstretched, empty palms turned
toward the sky.
Amanda Norsworthy lives in Toronto, Ontario and spends a good deal of her time staring at clouds, scratching her head, scribbling in her notebook.