Give the bitch her season.
Let's call her Marguerite, say
she's hollow as a dried-out
gourd with seeds that rattle
inside like a maraca. Assume
that she’s a whore of careers
and ideas, flitting from music
to God to business.
Let's give her
Spring. Marguerite can design
my whole damn mental Spring
catalogue in lines of website code
instead of poems, or decide from
the mauve of a crocus bloom to
farm fields of lavender for a job.
But if we don't give her a season,
she'll steal it. I wish
I could chart
her cycles like menses, the estrus
and rut of a whole new worldview
to be thrown out like yogurt cups,
potato peelings. Marguerite doesn't
give a shit for my feelings, the shame
of being asked what I do for a living.
What was it this week, again? I forget.
The trollop changed it all on me. Again.
Sadie McCarney's work has appeared in literary publications including The Malahat Review, The Puritan, Grain, Plenitude, EVENT, Prairie Fire, The Antigonish Review, PANK Magazine, and Room, as well as The Best Canadian Poetry in English 2015 and The Best of the Best Canadian Poetry in English. In 2016, she was a finalist for the Malahat Review Far Horizons Award for Poetry; in 2017, a finalist for the Walrus Poetry Prize. Sadie's first full-length book, Live Ones, is forthcoming from the University of Regina Press in Fall 2019.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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