Catherine McLaughlin 

poet, reviewer, Canada.

visit: joan

she tells me
that when she is well
she visits the psych ward
shares cigarettes, listens
holds their shaking hands

in her apartment she reads
prays, takes her meds
checks herself in when her fear is too great

wednesdays she is not at home
no phone, no one at the door

I wonder at her strength
you are a bridge, I tell her
her head jerks up, grey eyes stare

I had a dream, she whispers

I was outstretched
facing an abyss
my exposed spine
a scarlet track
of quivering nerves

the gleaming ivory of my bones
guided my friends
as they crawled
slowly across me

Arts Dialogue, February 2000, page 14


news

I remember the light
in the kitchen. I stared
at my busy hands, trying
to avoid the sorrow
in your eyes

I don't understand, I said.
so you spoke again

what are you telling me? I asked, afraid
of the place
where my question was taking us

I thought you knew, you whispered.
then you told me

Arts Dialogue, June 2002, page 21