essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
I swirl my eyes inside the paint
tears forming at the edges of me
January and the New Year are often dreaded in their insistence that we look back on what we have achieved, or what we meant to. This year, the looming of March feels the same, with its marking of the anniversary of the initial lockdown. It is easy to be hard on the progress you have…
Zones one to three have become a long-distance relationship.
Underground, Hades and his sardine dead
reach their eleventh hour
My mother packed eggs sunny side up,
Spam slices golden-browned to perfection
tucked into my lunchbox.
and what does it mean
that her blood still sings
through the Old Quarter
of my veins?
The angel comes unbidden
on a Thursday morning,
knocking briskly, handing me
a pineapple and thirteen coral-tinted roses.
Through photography and sculpture, I question how the manipulation of behaviour and patterns dehumanises society.
will you give me gentle hand grips and the space I need
to feel sorry for myself?
the diver submerged for so long
we presume her dead
shark food
scattershot of matter sinking deeper than cameras
Because of the pandemic, we didn’t have any Olympics this summer, so I decided to reproduce the Olympic coverage in July by printing (screen printing) over selected pictures from the Montreal Olympics of 1976
Spread out before you,
whipped and bright coloured,
dripping with sauces,
a world of unimagined flavours,
untranslatable.
Through countless retrievals, our memories of precious moments lose their ‘truth.’
Porridge 