Grow. Like the bristles on your chin,
Or the awkward toenail on my leftfoot.
Each morning as you pad downstairs,
You stop to water the pak-choi on the roof
Before assuming station at the table by the window.
Send me that virtual newspaper clipping.
Gather a veritable feast of sounds –
The crinkle, the crunch, the plop of an olive
Diving back into its jar after sliding off the prongs of
“Did you hear?” the morse code keyboard.
There used to be trains running
And a street full of engines
Now in the quiet, you cook me dinner
And, after supper, burn your tongue on the tea I pour.
by HR Gibs
Illustrated by Sam Meyerson
Milo Gorgevska lives in the dreary suburbs outside of Toronto, Ontario. Nonbinary and queer, they identify as a menace to society’s traditions. As a jack-of-all-trades, they are an author, director, poet & screenwriter. Previously, their writing under the pen name ‘Kara Petrovic’ has been published in Philadelphia Stories, Train: A Poetry Journal & others. Their…
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