say bupropion no fair enough say you’ll chew through this huge field of sunflowers better slur well into swooning the requisite great to say sing if we’ll let you have thoughts of dissolve or attempt say insured like you mean it say prayer where your liver should be say a side sleep less pronounce effect better more let us string lights through your broken to bright you say fixed through your teeth now enough steal a pint glass is that well say cigarette don’t say a cigarette any room say break just once but don’t broken drop thinking a singular say we can see you say through to collapse your bare legs once ungraceful alone apart say we can shame you see everything say fails a sudden unsteady your standing still shot through with ceaseless now us says we’ll raise you a comfort believe in a proper no fair say you’ll want this stop shaking we stayed your occipital sense in and warning it say a psalm quiet apartment your hands in our voice say not sleeping not single not sing say not scared say not scared again this time no laughing
We have a lot of feelings about this. Always stood in the city for our own inner still it’s too up-reach too steeped in too slow to creep lakeward, there’s more greater in us than area here, what’s that thing they say? Older and wiser? And how. We’ve been serious now for a while; stopped making our favourite songs into mix CDs and started making them into bars we dress well without anyone’s permission our favourite colours are brick and glass and we love the parks, all of them. What’s the war over? Metonymy? Fine rent? Brushed litter? Whichever. Ditched the old mattress line-broke our buildings inched closer to Junction reclaimed floors our knees to them made our new anthem a tie between garbage trucks someone’s sad groaning poured concrete and slow winter playing your nerves. We’ve still got some questions an underground surfeit of grey into grey in that order. What is it again? Older and sorry? We’ve been up for weeks drafting this palindrome letterhead lawn signs we painted it onto your car so you won’t forget ever: Welcome home, and our name, with the stutter, you were missed. Is it love or is living the long con?
EMMA HEALEY is a Montreal-based writer. Her first book of poetry, Begin With The End In Mind, was just published by Winnipeg’s Arbeiter Ring Press. She is also the founder and editor-in-chief of the Incongruous Quarterly, an online journal devoted to the publication of unpublishable literature. She is on twitter, and would like to apologize to you in advance.
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