Ruthless, the sun shone:
ironing, scorching root and stem.
Its muscles flared, a gender-blind juggernaut.
Suburban, possessed, the lilacs whisper.
In the shadowless nought—
on the soulless gravel—
I could see
the rocket hulk of the red Camaro.
My deep knowing—
sweet peas quiver, such poisonous moths—
that you were gone.
Thumb whorl on my text book—
analysis of time’s knoll—
a reminder that you were gone.
Nothing depends on you.
Then, from a green-headed cloud,
soapy drops spatter.
Villain dandelions, too many,
hiss and pant as they bow,
or is it I who bows?
The magnetic core pulls
me through the wettening, flattening grass,
down through soil, aquifer, rockhead, bedrock,
to roiling sorrow,
About the AuthorDeirdre Maultsaid is a writer living in Vancouver, British Columbia. Her creative essay, “The sun knows what it does” appeared in the anthology, Double Lives: Writing and Motherhood (McGill-Queens University Press). She has been published in Contemporary Verse 2, Canadian Women’s Studies, Other Voices, Prairie Fire and others. Her e-novel, the Ashes of Her Shelter is available from Barnes and Noble, Diesel and others. More information is available at: www.deirdremaultsaid.com.