A poem by Alexandra Oliver
Look below: the sable-eddied Kelvin
flowing fast, despite the town’s depression;
never angry, only bloody-minded,
rolling on to reach the red horizon.
Glaswegians put their trust in how it carries:
they toss into its care the things they use:
lolly sticks and condoms, knives and bottles,
babies’ toys, a jilted lover’s shoes.
A force that churns has somewhere else to be,
especially when spattered with this light.
Someone got it started; it is free.
To go a little closer must be right.
And sometimes there’s a child from an estate
pulled from games along the muddy edge,
and this is why the branches bend and wait
and why we always pause upon this bridge.
LINDA BESNER talks to NYLA MATUK about her new book
A new poem by DANIEL BROWN
A new poem by DAVID YEZZI
A panel of writers tackles literary ethics and the literary artist
A new poem by PAULA BOHINCE
MOLLY PEACOCK on one modern woman’s life
LAURA RITLAND wonders if Barthes could be woke
DAMIAN TARNOPOLSKY attends the Amazon.ca First Novel Awar
CADE LEEBRON on finding common ground with Hillary's campaign
REBECCA SALAZAR on Canada Reads