Your pale hands against the background
of your bedroom, their existence outlined
and guaranteed. Always wary
of the silence around you, the house’s cold
stupor. It was winter, eventually.
Are you living yet? Do birdcalls hold
anything like weeping or are they
still annoyance? Books ordered
along the windowpane, where their backs grew damp
with waiting. Your sister was next door,
pretending to sleep.
History says nothing about this.
The days are long. They were longer,
then. Now you move the furniture.
You pay the rent.
Annick MacAskill lives and writes in Toronto, Ontario. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Fiddlehead, Arc, Lemon Hound, Contemporary Verse 2, and The Steel Chisel. In 2014, she was longlisted for the CBC’s Canada Writes Poetry Prize and shortlisted for The Malahat Review‘s Far Horizons Award for Poetry.