Canadian Lit Mag
Every time I read Canadian Lit Mag I have this horrible
feeling of de-ja-vu. Except it just flashes back to reading
Canadian Lit Mag. That’s obviously not the title, but I didn’t
want Canadian Lit Mag entangled in my trauma.
The ferry warns to take care with heat producing items, and
I think of Canadian Lit Mag with a receipt marking a place
I won’t return. Each time you visit a place it’ll take a bit out
of you. It’s best to spread yourself out like ashes on a freeway;
this instructed by Canadian Lit Mag’s advertisements for dog
training. My cat has been known to put Canadian Lit Mag in
the litterbox, which he possibly thinks is letterbox. Either way,
his message is clear, unlike Canadian Lit Mag’s letters to the
editor. I see a rabbit zig-zag onto a ferry, it reminds me of the
button I left in the alley drinking vodka and Slurpees—trying
to become one with the pavement. Trying to follow the directions
of Canadian Lit Mag yoga. Everything lost finds a home
eventually. I seen a homeless dude wearing my toque—the one
I left at a stranger’s apartment in Port Coquitlam. The homeless
man saw no use for Canadian Lit Mag other than making quarter
flaps. The stranger played slots on his computer without money,
just like Canadian Lit Mag. The money was all up his nose and in
my lungs. My lungs oughtta be worth a lot by now—black like oil
in the ocean—black is the colour of my true love’s heart. Black
is the colour of Canadian Lit Mag when you leave it in the rain,
or use Sharpies to cross it all out. I see a fetus I think on the
beach, I see several. But they’re seaweed and jellyfish, they’re
Canadian Lit Mag’s unrepresented writers. I see people who were
once fetuses. What an ugly word—fetus—like fetish. They probably
think they’re fucking poets. Canadian Lit Mag has an editorial on
the ugliness of some words. I hear a little kid say, “Crunching
doesn’t hurt them,” in reference to stepping on crabs. How many
poets have children who make erasure poems out of math tests
and have found unique ways to justify torture? Canadian Lit Mag
has still not covered this. Things I should know how to do by now
but don’t: shaving legs, being published in Canadian Lit Mag and
cutting chicken with a knife. I see the sea. I see people who are
busy— but all I’ve got is Canadian Lit Mag for company—
with black font on shiny white paper. Telling me to go back where
I belong. That drowning is as easy as drawing stick people
in hangman.
Submittable
I almost withdrew my poem “13 Reasons Why Not”
because I figured the editor would feel like an asshole
for rejecting a poem on reasons to live, if I were to
not live, but then I didn’t want to assume that would
be the outcome, and wouldn’t I be the asshole for
withdrawing it? And maybe I will have to withdraw
this poem, and write a response to that, and on and on
until I have a chapbook on reasons to keep re-writing
until a life can be held with two hands—a portrait
without disorder. But this is just another failed attempt
to rewrite what has already happened. When you’re
really going to do it, you only need one reason, and
you’re smart enough not to record it. I guess it was
a shitty poem since everything takes practice, including
hope. I try not to write about news because I can’t stop
thinking about what’s left out, and how many different
ways there are to fall apart when there’s only one way
to keep going. Ultimately, I didn’t withdraw the poem,
not because I thought it would be published, but trusted
that we could all cope with the consequences.
This Poem Isn’t Waterproof
bell, let’s talk, if you really want to?
i have trouble reading these things.
a lot of other things have come up lately
for me. facebook tells me to get over it.
twitter tells me to swim through it.
i’m hungry as hell but not the type
of hunger you’re thinking of. i’m cold,
so cold i can barely write. the ferry
smells of grease and i feel like grease,
though showered this morning. what?
crazy people can’t shower? if i’m in
a position where i can bang my head
against the wall, i can usually manage.
laundry and cooking are other matters.
or not destroying literary magazines
by keeping them in bags that aren’t
waterproof. it took me years of walking
everywhere to buy waterproof boots,
and they’re kids. walmart kids. i’m sorry,
bell, i know i’m not supposed to shop
at walmart but isn’t the greatest sin
believing that capitalism can ever be
ethical? my ethical code means i must
submit everything i write, even though
a lot of it should be thrown into the
woodstove. i lie, bell, i don’t have a
woodstove. your greatest supporters do,
or they’ve replaced them with those fake
fireplaces and generators for when the
power goes out. bell, my power has gone
out and i’m debating how to replace it. bell,
i know you said “let’s talk” but let’s be
honest, those of us who really need to talk
can’t tell you much of anything. anyone
who will automatically know what i mean
stopped paying attention months ago. bell,
if i donate 10 cents from every #letslisten
hashtag, i may be able to eventually buy
the local animal shelter a collar—but not
choke-chain, that would require extra. bell,
when you stare out the window of the
ferry it goes twice as slow. i would donate
10 cats instead of 10 cents but my crazy cat
lady ambition hasn’t come to fruition.
the one i have is fine where he is, he
doesn’t have the same requirements
people do. all he needs is to be loved.
bell, how long do you think i could swim
before the coast guard or sharks would
come get me? bell, i lied again, we don’t
have sharks. nobody would save the
literary magazines. one of them has a
poem about suicide and cats that sums
up my approach to life. but i’m too tired
to be funny. bell, where do the depressed
clowns go when they’re too tired to be
funny? maybe there’s a special place in hell
for us. i believe animal charities tried the
approach of informing people of how many
dogs would survive until summer, it didn’t
work, despite having a hashtag or joke.
i would donate but i can’t even afford
capitals. could you use a kidney? i could
give you 10 other questions on things
nobody talks about. if poetry is the special
place in hell, tell them it’s highly overrated.
∞
Jill M. Talbot’s writing has appeared in Geist, Rattle, subTerrain, PRISM, The Stinging Fly, and others. Jill won the PRISM Grouse Grind Lit Prize. She was shortlisted for the Matrix Lit POP Award and the Malahat Far Horizons Award. Jill lives in Vancouver, BC.
