the creek 1

I first heard it through the trees, the low poplars and birch. New shoots and branches everywhere. Digging at each other. Reaching out  through the sun, a yellow shadow. Straining my eyes to see what I heard.

It was like the brook at the cabin in Margaree.  As soon as the car turned onto Scot’s Hill. Left. Over the bridge. Right. The tires on the gravel, like teeny tiny bird bones. That’s not the sound.

Now’s it’s time to pee. Staring at the Cape Breton fish poster on the back of the bathroom door.

And then standing on the edge of the brook, my cheap K-Mart flip flops like bloated marshmallows. Jamming my foot down to keep them where they belong. A couple Barbies in each fist. Focused on the massacre at hand.

Plop. Pause. Plop. Watching their little nipple-freeplasticlimbsplasticstrandsofhair rush tumble downstream. Goodbye forever. I’m good though.

I have a whole pillowcase of these things.


my dog peed on my favourite bra

My life now is just listening to my 11 year old play video games with his friends online.

Listening to Post Malone and Celeste on repeat. Smoking bowls. Wearing lingerie around the house. Trying to navigate technology with these claws.

I have too much clutter. I want to throw everything in the garbage.