I
am a woman in the same way
a
skull in the desert remains a deer. You can hear
echoes
of the sky in me. I spend
many
nights drinking from cacti, contemplating disaster.
I
try not to remember your hips in my lap
like
milk in a spoon.
One
day I become sane again – or something
just
like it – and come to a crack in the earth, see your face
on
a billboard for skin smoothing cream. I can barely feel
my
cratered cheeks. I thought after the end
there
should be nothing left, not even
a
delirious advertisement. But the sky still flickers
with
purple thunder, plays reruns
of
the charm on your neck.
Eva Haas is a queer artist and poet originally from Ktaqmkuk (St. John's, Newfoundland). She has recently completed a BA in Writing at the University of Victoria and her term as Victoria's eleventh Youth Poet Laureate. Her work has been a finalist for competitions at CBC, Room and Frontier, and can be found in The Malahat Review and Riddle Fence.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
