Poems of the Week

Curated for Your Poetic Pallette

Graphic Morag Rahn-Campbell


by Kirsty Fiona

I told myself it would take a while for me to write this poem;
here I am.

My fingers smell of cheap cigarettes,
I tell myself I only smoke when it gets bad

Being catcalled reminds me of you,
your ability to have me trust you carelessly.
I was wearing my favourite sweater—
it is still my favourite sweater.
Acquired at the United Church flea market at the age of 14,
Its seams slowly fraying.

I told myself I would never write this poem.
That I was not brave enough to feel this again,
that I did not deserve.

We tell ourselves that we want this attention,
because at 15, I based my worth on whether men wanted me.
Now I wonder if I am still doing the same when I become
emotionally attached.

Evaluating myself on my ability to be loved by men;
to please men.

Always questioning if this was real.
This is real.
This was real.
This is still real.

I know now that
“love” is not your fingers dancing quietly on a bench at
2 a.m. in November with my hazy, high body.

That same night, she and I
walked home with her knife curled up in her fleece,
daring any stranger to encounter us at 3 in the morning.

We are guided by this fear,
I am still guided by this fear.

People still wonder why sometimes I do not trust men
to not take me from myself.

I am whole and lovable.
I am not lost.
I know exactly where I am.

It is still my favourite sweater,
I just didn’t wear it for a while.

“I am whole and lovable.
I am not lost.
I know exactly where I am.“— Kirsty Fiona, Hazy


by Michael Dutton

She smiled at me
Like a smooth decadence into personality
Dependent on nothing

All convulsions!
All containments!
She reminds me of the yellow mountains of Spain!
And all the other places I’ve never been

Concord Candle

by Jazmin Merhmann

All I have left of you
Is this
I treat it with less respect
Than most things
Sometimes I light it
A failed attempt
To kindle memories
That have nothing to do with you