Issue 17, April 1998
Tori Wilfred - Two Poems

dangled years  
on the calendar rip
away page by page knock
over the old bottle of red
wine sour from brooding
too long, the label half-peeled
take a sip, let the spirits go
to your head, let the vino
splash into fibers
better left alone
to seep into your veins
death of the purple flesh
on the cracked formica counter 
off-white no more
stained from tart humour
taken with a twist of lemon 
thick vital fluid drips in slow
motion to the newspaper below
grisly with stale coffee and a biting
memory of the man 
too long embarrassed by his father
and his male lover and their laughter
who shot them in this café
while they sat at this counter
eating salami and hard bread
the wine became blood 
at the crack of a gunshot.

moments never quite forgotten
tumble down like fairy dust
with the mist though he doesn't 
mean to see her
at the corner grocery
where he goes almost every 
night if only for the daily paper
which tells only sad stories 
of floods, earthquakes and angry words
from avalanched hearts
like his from her now
as she holds open the door
for the wrinkled old man
her hair blowing in the wind 
her grace as potent as her 
humour that never failed
to bring him to tears
eyes burning with hollow 
dreams of what could have been
last fall dying with the trees
before the snow cleaned the world
or it was supposed to
not cold enough to kill the insects
or his memories
to greet her so he doesn't stop
just walks up the broken
sidewalk to his apartment 
where the light has burned out
and the fog caresses his cheek 
like goodbye.