Thursday’s trap door below her
memory swings and                   up
climbs the same captor
always that man, grey wool suit
red carnation
taking her furniture, pictures
Saturdays hostage
again she bumps into the                       empty
spaces between bare walls
of personal care

Tuesday teaspoons clatter         around
pronouns and prepositions
turn against her
it’s all for and him
from and to and she
always them
Sundays standing in shaky         dark
her shadow pulled
from within
by that child, is that green corduroy
she can’t place
strangers in framed                               thens

Wednesday’s worn thin metal     circles
around her bent finger
she turns and strokes warm
its edges
she                                           remembers
little from where it came
only that touching it                   keeps
Monday quiet
and the smile seems                                          less
foreign, younger
almost                                      captivating
grey and red                                                                 and                                          


fifteen two fifteen four fifteen six and a pair
are eight
right Jack makes nine
drops your hand

we play next to a garden
of bones, copper plates
stone heads
the empty theatre languishing
strand across the alley

it wasn’t a great run but
it had its moments
you smile in the end
if you write about this
let me be sundance
he got the girl

cells dissolve
there’s voices in the trees
who say they know you
yes I nod
they aren’t lying but
it’s only half the truth

you peel the thick
rind of orange for tea
wink as I collect my hand
hunt in the fall
when the blood is thick
nineteen points
I throw
you smile

in this verse
you get the girl
I give my hand

Miss Fern Hill

The shiniest maybe
off a stage of don’ts
the way you stood cap cocked crooked
before you took
my hand to dance

All through sixth grade
I drew you tiny red
knotted in the bottom corner
of every green page in my cours de français
Hilroy notebook

Acquainting myself
with little origins of devotion
truth dropped its penny
between us
you knew young
you would never grow old
the shimmering weight of your head
forming a soft imprint in my young shoulder
your voice
a small ornate wound in me

For weeks through night spit
match lights we picked
our remains out of the spaces
between stones
played hide and seek well
into the dark. So small

I would never find you
in the garden over the fence
above me in the tree
the sky in your fingers
between laughter
in shadows of breath
I envied you

Until October red and shining
fading green
you hid outside
your little bone cage echoed
laughter without tears

Following you out of grace
I have made a tedious adult
I’m afraid
I tire of not finding you
untying red knots
into a song of innocence
in the bottom corner
of an empty page

This is today’s line.

This is today’s line
towed together by words
fallen out of yesterday’s mouth.

This is today’s line.
It should make me hundreds,
change the world.

This is today’s line.
Please remain behind the velvet rope.
Take no pictures.

This is today’s line.


She meant no harm
sitting at my window
for hours
while I charted changing shades
falling moonlight
on gathered skin.
It never really mattered
if I was there
or not.

If I was there
she made love to me.
If I was gone she made tea
sat at the window.
I like it better when I was there
most days.

I asked her once what she saw.
Clear glass, she replied.

One evening
alone she threw a cup
a hole in the window.
Years passed
I wonder if all she saw
was a piece
of the cedar

About the Author:

David Yerex Williamson is a college instructor and poet living in northern Manitoba. His recent works have appeared in the literary magazines Contemporary Verse 2, Prairie Fire, The New Quarterly and the Prairie Journal of Literature. David is a member of Manitoba Writers Guild, the League of Canadian Poets and is the founder of the Boreal Writers Group. When not writing or drawing, David shovels snow, cuts wood and chases his dogs along the historic Nelson River.