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Oh, Canada Innocuous mass above our heads, Giant kitten sleeping on my pillow Protecting me from dread. My Mother left New Brunswick at five; But to hear her, you would think She had lived there all her life. An escape plan for Handmaids, And me. Atwood’s Eden, and my Great grandmother’s brownstone On Germaine. White deer at Fundy Park an allure, a promise. You are not our enemy To the north, but half of me. My heart pulled apart like a sinewed Stone. Anatomized and clever. M

Another Poem about Breaking Up Inspired by M. A.’s “Circle Game” Dance around this circle game; [not the drain, not yet] Rings around rosies, everybody Knows, is a song about death. Threat inspires vaccinations, But, there is none in our inventory For this heartache. Yet. Every February 14th just throwing The meltdown into your beautiful Face. Paper hearts, doilies, tiny cards. So gross. [Rip this beating tissue out of my weak-boned chest.] Tear it up, man. Sprinkle The piece

Airport Whiskey for JSW This grief is the non-profit tote bag slung over my shoulder As we shop Newbury Street and Every plate of carefully curated conference breakfast That we will never get to eat. It is us zig-zagging the traffic of Nashville Rushing to the airport gate and The leisurely morning mimosas, The real reason we were late. It is curbside post-clubbing slices of pizza Shared under the Austin city lights and You revealing the news about L.A. Before we knew how the

The Murmuration Always we in amazement watch The cyclone black and glimmering, Starlings flock and fall In formation.  How can I Live with such a heart? Poets always ask this question. We try to heal with words What is broken beyond fixing. The sky darkens in the evening; They are flying away, As we have forced them. My chimney is blocked - you Cannot come in - but also, There is no fire to warm My bleeding feet.

A Fresh Pencil for a Fresh Hell “ For years, the belief that poetry is here to help us  traveled with me everywhere, tucked into the pockets of suitcases, backpacks. ” ~Naomi Shihab Nye Sharpened to perfection, this Natural Blackwing, with the hope That all our fears are Wrong.     That the coming storm Will blot it all out. Erase it, Somehow. Snowflakes shut Down roads, so only our pens Can travel. Shut down contempt, So that our new neighbors Might ride on

Heather has been writing poetry for as long as she can remember and has been filling notebooks with it since she was a teenager. One of...