Margo LaPierre


Mauve-mottled mountains spear the clouds, a roller
coaster of stilled bones, pastels creak 
in the crowing wind of the fairgrounds. 
Old wooden fences hold back zombies.
The young ones’ eye sockets 
level with my charging breath. 
My husband holds my hand. Blood warmth. 
My dead cat is here, alive now, his ears
frostbitten, so I take the velvet slips in my hands
gently to warm them up, sweet kitten. 
They warm up. I wake up. 
The slatted wood a hiding place, ants crawling
spaces where sleep falls away, a car 
pulls in, headlights broad as childhood. 
The groundwood disintegrates soft under my feet. 
My feet disintegrate soft into the ground. 
My old drug-dealer sex hookup 
waits in his pink convertible, moving new 
shit, that superdangerous stuff that makes you
an exoskeleton if you take too much. 
I can see him from inside while we talk on the phone, 
discuss what I will wear. He starts on about his 
gun and I remember when he first tipped his 
backpack over my bed and it tumbled out 
and my belly constricted. I’m not ready, I tell him 
to go on ahead. My husband drops me at the theatre. 
I walk over to the pink convertible, get in the car. 
We rev and roll, a beach clotting the air 
with sand. A surf, shooting blue plumes
into the sun. The horizon is a cliff. I say, stop. 

Margo LaPierre is an award-winning queer, bipolar Canadian poet, editor, and author of Washing Off the Raccoon Eyes (Guernica Editions, 2017). She is Arc Poetry Magazine’s newsletter editor and member of poetry collective VII. Her work has been published in RoomArcfilling StationCAROUSELcarte blanchePRISM, and others. Find her on Twitter @margolapierre.

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