When the wind blows from  the south it inflates my fertile exclamation marks into multi-coloured bubble letters that leap across my grade eight binder.   When the wind draws from the south it warps my anorexic exclamation marks into blue ink question marks that tattoo the palms of my hands.   –  do you remember […]

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Moments in photos are plucked and polished and presented but moments told by walnut burl knobs on fingers turned to channels of moments not captured by a backlit square revealing only shades of truth tell the story of moments that made us. – my hands are story tellers

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When I was 10    I noticed bodies shifting to edge shoulders just enough to swallow gaps otherwise large enough to invite    Her participation in conversations once easier now multiplied into tangents met by blank stares widening the moat around her    Body that gave birth five times, still breeding resentment among women who […]

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