still building (xv – xx)




from furnace

heated words – we would send small papers to secret


knowing not the start of flames

for sure

the bottom of the house holds us up

ask how







sounds start down here


when swept

dust adjusts

its frame of reference


do tell: everything

in its place




watch them, wash them

exposed pipes but still mystery

coffin caught in the minds of too young apples and salt

cellars make jailed opportunities of insecurity

you’ll have to go downstairs

with a floor the colour of street confused

by its cold

and oldest the rooms light

intent by floral overexposure and a faux window

a mirror rusts

insects corner memories




work hard

so many jars

they made this place, primed it

dust sheets / enrapture

locked in lists

she carves the same


hale, here

wood perspires

heave hard


            still building / work is done




coming clean

a game of maids played by two who would spend future

years as cashiers, the dirty money of the city staining

hands wiped on cotton smocks

(all for food)

learnt to dial

heavy duty fast fast

the signs

shown by bodies

not known by fathers when they trade jeans among

children so hers shrink, the dryer lied and softens but he

smoothes corners knows just how much soap carefully

calls out to clarify

mom loves clotheslines

but always skips the second rinse

hang three sweater and think

folding over older

this is how i know you now




stair down

as steeped

as time those trips

friends make

and us so certain

one after another

in the end

another story




my room

hates yellow

that of aching corners and begs

for the white of page (the wait pulls)

curves a small dent

cushioned  quarrels that find their only air in holds made and

wholes forgotten


let me switch off

this trying light



lets you find pills peeking form the floor

stand bare backed and cold wondering if your friends know


and admit it

the carpet quiets such

so close

to day


listen: do i detect the next step


the rest of

the room

siphons sun that draws the walls a morning

page turns colours (the tension of prisms)

small sounds me staying here a blinking cursor is that alarm


let cut edges

lean into one another



dreams contain wait and years

store or shatter the clamour that marks and makes an age



shelve me bed

accessory to time

says still building


surround sound



- Emily Fedoruk