by Duncan McNaughton

Carlisle, the tailor, though otherwise a
clumsy man, sat taking his ale and a
helping of rhubarb–serviceberry pie.
The last of an overcast, foggy day
added to the dimness that had settled
on his thoughts. The discreet Chinese bell
that hung from his shop door seldom chimed any,
Sartorialismo, along with so
much else that had once made humane sense, had
been tossed to the dustbin. Those days were gone
from Saskatoon. Bankers had become worms, the
barons of commerce and politics, worms,
the gamblers and sharps gusanos all. The
old class of gentlemen brought in their shirts
for the collars to be turned, their fabrics
were fine, buttonhole stitch was respected,
waste hadn’t become a virtue. Appearance
had been understood to be a metaphor.

Carlisle’s rooms were above the shop, ample
enough for himself and the Cree woman
that looked after them and him. Grateful as
she was for his silences and he for hers.
He’d picked up enough of her tribal speech,
she of his native Spanish. Neither cared
much for Colonial English, but then —

in cold weather they skated together,
arm in arm, when the pond was a mirror.

by Ava Darling

She lies on her back, beside him
in the wide bed, one of her
hands touching one of his.
It is her hand that touches his
hand. The air touches her.
She feels the air as it
moves over the body she
lives within, feels the air
cool upon that skin.

She fears she is not one
with her body. This man’s
desires are seldom her desires,
too often demand too
much, push her, take
too much from her.
I want satisfaction,
she thinks, I want pleasure.
But I want comfort — not
some animal driving
my legs apart, routing with his
bristled snout in search of truffles.

She feels the cool air move
over her legs, imagines the shape
of her legs, ankles to hips,
imagines her waist, that
curve from hip to rib. She
imagines comfort. She
imagines that glow, the feeling
that settles within one,
imagines how it feels as
it grows and flows through one.

The air moves across her breasts,
caresses her neck, and chin, brushes
her hair. She loves her body,
loves the way it feels to be
caressed, by the wind, or even
certain men. She imagines his
hand, touching, even caressing,
her body. She lies beside
him, imagines his caresses.

She didn’t want to know about
his days, his life or his ideas.
She did want him as an animal,
immediate, there with her
on his hands and knees, all fours,
sniffing her, as she sniffed
him, breathing, as she breathed —
the same air in the same room
on the same bed.
                                On the same bed
Is that all there is to it —
sex ?
         No, she said. It has to do with
limiting layers, getting
past the social. There is a level
that doesn’t include the social, a level
they both well knew — a level
that turned social on its head.
We don’t need to talk about
that, he said.

by Ava Darling

One must wait for the bath water
to warm and then to cool, first
a finger, finally a toe.

Now I stand, my feet quite
wet, lower myself. O
most gentle caress. How
complex the sensation as I sit,
lay back, slide into
the bath.

              Warm, the water
touches as silk. One feels
and rests within the touch.
Almost a state of sleep.

Then as the water begins to cool,
one notes a restlessness.
One knows only that there is
some unknown, something
amiss.

          One’s mind begins
to wander. One wonders what
to wear.

             Have you ever noticed,
once you’ve gotten out of the tub
and you’re dressed, in front of the mirror,
lipstick in hand, how cold
and gray the water looks?

One finds it hard to believe
it could have ever been different.

by James Koller

Suddenly, up from her bed,
she crossed the moonlit room,
her white skin silver, he thought,
in that light. What is it? he asked,
from the bed, watching her,

& she, at her mirror,
seemingly, he thought,
caught by her own image,
explained: I’d forgotten
to take out my earrings.

Will you come back to bed?
he asked.
                Of course I will.

Rita degli Esposti

1

sulky
the hill its profile
the peach–trees cemetery
scorned cabbages
dedication of poetry to the dead
living

2

unforgiving matter
you’ll look like an Etruscan
particularly hair
ubi nil terreat
having slop with a fork
trying to understand a poem

3

comforting
poetry
of dandelion
out
of time

4

music in my head
a killer on yr sofa
wait wait wait

5

rolls of skin, you know
produced in a lab
under some
over some
beneath
some

6

it’s not my willpower
it’s witch doctor
it’s venerare
assoggettare
in my teatro stabile
of the four directions
( the fifth in the centre)

7

pleasant
the rain
lining up
perceptions
there’s no
limit
to the
limit

Some of these poems were printed in a handmade edition of a booklet , “poesie for clunk!,” April 2008.