ON THE OCCASION OF LOSING ONE’S GUIDING LIGHT
the desire to change, to molt,
to sprout wings, to morph into
mythology puffs out my chest,
stiffens my spine, but i get so
distracted by j-lo’s divorce and
a remake of a remake that now
it’s time for bed and i haven’t
even shaved. ochre creeps along
the maples before their leaves
irrevocably fall into the gutters.
halloween trees look so naked
it’s hard not to laugh, or cry; it
depends. in grade ten science
class, lisa double-dared me to
stick my tongue down her throat.
endoplasmic reticulum, seminal
vesicles and what’s the difference
between mitosis and meiosis?
she had a thing for athletes. i
saw her at the dollarama, her
kids were alarmingly feral.
she was pale, paler as i stared
until she become translucent
as a jellyfish. the space station
that crashed into tamil nadu,
i’d been using it as a sort of
homing beacon. now it takes
twice as long to walk home.
i’ll trade you a stale-dated
manuscript and a sympathetic
smile for just one gold trophy.
it doesn’t have to be solid gold.
gold-plating or just a few strips
of gold paint will do. you can
even pick the sport, i’m easy.
Bio: Darrell Epp is the author of the poetry collection Imaginary Maps. His poetry has appeared around the world in places like Rhino, Poetry Ireland, Exile and Queen’s Quarterly.