finally, a poem classy enough to be “untitled”


I frantically gulp ketchup.
You fill my room with MLM supplements.

I dunk Tostitos scoops
to uncharted depths of nacho cheese.

Finding the long coveted Pearl of Pettiness,
I develop a taste for bitters.

Please, the spectators weep, no more,
as I serve them yet more spoonfuls of honey mustard.

My revenge will be sweet
and sour,
I hear myself announce in a dream.

The whistle blows. 5-3

I fling Salsa Con Queso
into the night sky.





founded on frosting


We started with a haiku.

You spotted five bright red donuts

on Bloor and I laughed out seven ha’s.

We walked up five stories:

your common blackbirds through

to my childhood fear of stairs.

It was too high up to see Toronto

but close enough to saw,

weave and stack.

critical failure


At some point I tried to reorganize our poem into a

sonnet, but you hated the restrictions. I bought lemons

for the vodka. You slept with other people. I slept. We

called it call-a-friend. We called it lifeline. No one had

a million dollars, not even you. I spray-tanned myself

orange. You hated Cheetos. There were so many fires,

you moved above a fire station. I read Keats. You threw

a book at the wall. I didn’t balance life and work. We

flattened into prose. You got half the alphabet. I was on

a different page.