hills are slipping in the rain —

a non-human
……………………reminder

that life is fluid; that everything moves
……on. that even the thickest fingers
…………latched deep…….. into hillside breasts

can’t hold bodies safe. that humans’ finest
……accretions rooted onto rocky outcrops
…………like mutant newborns…….. are useless

against nature’s swell, gathering force
……within. it builds like mother’s milk:
…………spheres begin to shift —…….. release.

cypress rip from their beds & up-
……end, tipped as easily as I-Ching
…………sticks……. divining ill fate.

erosion scores the shell, exposing
……demons we’d ignored: dark & thick
…………& writhing. ……. pines subtly

slide. the earth’s innards collapse,
……displacing our hubris. it’s physics,
…………but we deny ……. its inevitability,

refusing to see that torturous battles
……always birth distorted shapes. the facade
…………where they won’t ……. or haven’t,

puckers into tors & scars so rigid,
……they tear. and when you run your fingers
…………over your ……. thinning hair

it’s a human reminder of what more
……nature’s taken. downpours & mudslides
…………make for ……. clean slates,

and when they’re done, dawn choruses
……of men, backhoes, dozers, log chippers
………..& haulers ……. move in

assuming every catastrophe can be
……fixed, in time—but that’s our mistake.
………..it’s physical: ……. scars & hills exist

to remind us of our accidental
….. ……. ……. .. survival.

**

her black teeth | my white
a fractured sonnet

 

 

**

In Brand New Coats

Red & orange, soggy underfoot: Canada’s golden fall
glows with avenues of maples. Snug in the airport taxi

we’re pioneers; like ponies skittish for treats, all a-trot.
Steaming from our nostrils, we greet the New World
in brand new coats we bought for emigration—but
now we have to land a place to sleep. The Cecil’s close:
$39 Suites! flashes green from a nicotin’d window,
smouldering & indiscreet at the gangrenous toe

of Granville Street. On their second wind, the kids
trampoline the sagging beds. Big city lights beckon,
red & orange. Soggy underfoot, Canada’s golden fall
beguiles us with sly winks to peep through its gaudy eyes
into hectic streets & sordid alleys. O! Sleep won’t come!
Jet-lagged, we fling our coats back on to go explore.

Reflections of Davie Street’s raw, neon aura
enthrall us. Not so much courageous as we are naïve,
we’re pioneers, like ponies skittish for treats, all a-trot.
An open diner breathes toasted-hot aromas: breakfast
served from chipped, blue-lit laminate where two
middle-aged hookers sit—the first I’ve ever seen.

I hesitate—too late. We’re drawn into warm café kinship.
Bandana-clad bikers come & go; the dealers, no doubt,
of Granville Street. On their second wind, the kids
peel bananas for the cornflakes they ordered serenely
at 3 a.m. as if globe-trotting is their normal gig.
–Cute kids, one of the sex-trade workers blurts

jerking her unravelling Tina Turner wig of bleached
straw, jerking her scarred jaw at my two tanned lads.
Reflections of Davie Street’s raw, neon aura
flirt with her plastic earrings as they dip & hop
with the tap of her booted foot. Her fingers twitch;
she gnaws & licks her painted lips like a ferret,

iridescent red bleeding into their smoky cracks.
–One more on the way? she nods at my obvious bump.
I hesitate—too late. We’re drawn into warm café kinship.
What to say? Am I that different? A migrant sister,
hidden inside a fancy coat? –Had a couple myself, eh—
she shrugs, palms up, confessing. –Got taken away…

Then abruptly, from some deep, unknowable rift,
tears track mascara down her pock-marked cheeks.
Jerking her unravelling Tina Turner wig of bleached
defiance, she grins through their streaks, these marks
of mourning that brand her with universal bar-codes
of the damned. I lean again over my eggs, uneasy.

From our peeling, vinyl booth, blades of vivid sun
slice ribbons through the soot-grimed, city-spat glass,
iridescent red bleeding into their smoky cracks.
Then abruptly, from some deep, unknowable rift,
daylight erupts fully-blown, splashing onto our throats
& dripping down the night cook’s wrists.

–Nice coat, the hooker whispers at me
as we pass.

 – First Published in Canterbury Poetry Prize, 2022 (Longlist)

**

Number 99

For Sharice

Ninety-nine arm-hairs rising on end
with my lover’s first red-beard-prickled
……………………kiss;

ninety-nine spasms in time when two
hearts beat synchronously and a fractured
……………………world

becomes one. Ninety-nine feathers
plucked like a fistful of quivering
……………………quail,

my delicate skeleton sucked white
in a heady new sun. And now,
……………………tracing

the family tree, it leads her back
to me: a Number in a registry.
……………………Squaw.

i am raven’s caw; i am frog spawn; i am
necklace of bear-claw; i am quill-vest; i am
……………………snow-white

rabbit paw. i am canoe filled with man-spore,
portaged to a white-tent’s census-page:
……………………nameless.

Ninety-nine months of blind winter
blizzards, with only my loon-soul cry to
……………………pierce

the grieving emptiness of sky; ninety-
nine moose-skins cleaned to keep us
……………………dry.

Ninety-nine glistening dragonfly wings
flickering in dreams of home, and early
……………………Spring.

Ninety-nine plump summer squirrels
trapped; ninety-nine mosquitoes
……………………slapped.

Ninety-nine contractions suffered—
subtracted from a nation of numbered
……………………placentas—

to birth my sweet daughter, Kicâpân.
Ninety-nine moon-tides of blood did i offer
……………………the flood

of your flushed generation, streams from my
denigrated lands; memory on how you must
……………………swim.

Ninety-nine owls guard my offspring’s
skin, tingling with ninety-nine strands of
……………………birdsong

that i thread through your veins, braided
with sweetgrass, sage, and lonely
……………………waterfalls.

The ninety-nine stars that flash in your
hands, are the ninety-nine stones that cradle
……………………my grave.

~~

First Published in Forgotten Women, A Tribute in Poetry, Grayson Books, 2017. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Kicâpân– Your Grandmother – applies to many generations (Cree) (ki-chaa-bpun)

Note: During colonial exploration, many indigenous peoples worldwide were demeaned, if not directly persecuted; their customs and ways of life largely eradicated. North America was no exception. Although Sharice assumes her great-grandmother, Number 99, was Manitoba Cree, she has no further evidence of her existence other than this registry number; and family lore.

**

coming of age

…………the day I waxed
was the first day……………….. of spring.
my fur had grown in

…………thick: intricate.
I considered ………….. leaving it and
staying in my cave

…………but no, I thought
I need to ……………… emerge
someday,

…………as pre-pubescent
as the pretty ones ……………… that all the
bad boys pick.

I’m brave, I can take it:

…………the burn & the drip & the rub &
stench of scorched oil ………….. & oranges—
and then the rip.

…………at the end of that first long
sun-dripped ………….. summer of
sangria-dregs & scratching

…………itches, I had an inkling that
the adaptation …………to humanity
isn’t all it was

…………cracked up to be.
yes, the offending pelt …………is history—
but so is

the rest of me.

~~

First Published in Prospective, A Journal of Speculation, 2013, “Surrender the Sasquatch & No One Gets Hurt” Book 7.

**

Highway 97

Love rushes off
into the dark

dragging its tail
lights behind.

Way up high
on this hilltop

I can make out
more of its kind—

always speeding
towards what seems like

shinier constellations,
trying to avoid collision.

I hope the decisions
of our rear-view mirrors

will reflect our repeated
lanes of leaving;

will see how we veer
between straight lines.

And the surprise
of our expression

when it finally dawns
that black ice forms

in the mind only in
winter; & often

the brightness
of a chosen road

is bogus. The lights
that mesmerize & burn

are the eyes of a beast
who eats its own heart;

& their glare just leads us
right past

the turn-off
to everywhere.

~~

First published by Event Poetry & Prose, Issue 50-2, 2021

 ——————————————–

kerry rawlinson is a mental nomad. She left Zambia decades ago to explore and landed in Canada. Fast forward: she’s still barefoot, tiptoeing through dislocation & belonging. Awards: Glittery Literary and Edinburgh International flash contest winner; notable poem Best Canadian Poetry; Pushcart nomination; Honorable mention Proverse Press & Fish Poetry contests; finalist for others, e.g. Canterbury Festival; Room; Poetry Society and Palette. Recent work in Prism Review; Duality; Pedestal; O:JA&L; Grain; Epoch; Event Poetry; Prairie Fire, and more. When not challenging established norms, kerry kayaks and drinks too much (tea).

Author’s photograph – Angahard Jones Brooks 

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