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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