Five Poems

by Dylan Wagman

Now They Got to Pay for It
Talking about colour 
colour! Ohhhh
1989 when Pierre Trudeau and Brian Mulroney
Ooooo Ooooo 
that was fun.
Yonge and Lawrence
working with Pierre Trudeau for insurance
for the fat punani
that sounds delicious doesn’t it 
Skinny one can’t get a piece of the pie 
cause they only like them fat punanis.
Yeah, well, that’s the way they talk.
They call everything punani and blood clot
You gotta have the blood clot
to wipe off the clot.
You know what I mean baby?
That’s what their grandmas teach them
long time ago from Jamaica.
With the Caribbean sea. 
The white woman.
The white woman.
Strawberry blonde.
It’s the special.
It’s a tradition to eat raspberry cheesecake in the bedroom 
with an old bitch.
And they deserve it.
Cause it’s just too much.
See the housewife.
The housewife just wants to sit home all day
and cook and clean and be tired and watch videos.
That’s why she is where she is today
on Dixie.
You see she’s always tired 
She goes, “Aaahh I’m too tired to have sex honey.”
The sex was too hard for her this month.
She figured the Canadian guy was nice from Winnipeg
Yeah, that’s what I mean
she chose the guy with the hernia
And you know what?
They’re all fat pigs look like that in Scarborough.
On Neilson and Sheppard.
Thanks god he’s a white man.

Quiet Light
She watches the water come alive, bubbling.
Carefully, she maneuvers the pot onto the ground.
This is not where it belongs.
She squats over top of it,
warmth wraps her skin.
Her husband’s asleep in the bedroom.
Carefully suffocating her crying,
she bends lower into the steam. 
Her thighs are moist,
as it rises up inside her.
She reaches into her blouse
squeezes two nails into her nipple.
In 1954, her daughter got on Toronto’s first subway.
She left the ORT office,
followed a crowd into the ground.
The concrete couldn’t keep out 
the fresh scent of the earth,
which at that very moment 
was pressing, weighing itself.
A general feeling of interest 
tiptoed the platform.
The breeze from the tracks
slipped into the legs of her pants
as the subway rattled in.
The capital letters come in tiled flashes
So that each stop
comes to a culmination,
the quick pealing of a present – 
light’s soft whisper
through the shrieking darkness.
Blood is dark and wet
I felt you in my arm, 
a metal pinch in the muscle
that lingered 
like the smell of worms.
And still,
when it rains
I can feel the dirt churn,
a steel plate under my skin
squeezing capillaries.
My stomach has collapsed – 
earthworms charge my esophagus
feeling for sunlight.
No fever 
can burn away
your unabated 
The mayhem of thunder
and fingers,
sawdust and seashells
drive your aria
into the world,
juxtapose your ditty
with the bounce and boom
of songs that hover
and rise like snow.
Grab hold of brass
and tend to colour.
Something Else
The sun ticks across the pale face of the sky,
while the glass forest grows.
Shade combusts
alleyway at a time
until clouds are the final harbinger
of darkness.
Even the moon ignites the city
through a burning, humid haze
suspended gasoline
– all at once
the spotlight, the star
and something else,
silent and suspicious.
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