Towards the jetty of industry, streaking
heat, striated with gauzed air,
I sat there in the front,
wishing an occasional flame
through the pixellated evening pinks of August,
little men in baseball whites
whirring to my right side.
We were passing, we were
being passed, we were at a light,
but your voice was so loud we were moving,
A green pocket, the feathered wives
on woven chairs, unfolded.
One woman bent away, lost in her ankles
while someone else flapped into applause.
West EndSarah Pinder lives in Toronto. Her writing has been shortlisted for the Expozine Small Press Awards and included in the anthology She’s Shameless, and journals like Room, Canadian Woman Studies and invisible city. A zine-maker of over a decade, you can find her work in Montreal’s Distroboto art vending machines, as well as a mailbox near you. Her first collection, Cutting Room, is forthcoming with Coach House Books in Fall 2012. http://bitsofstring.wordpress.com
by Sarah Pinder
above/ground press broadside #310