Poetry by Monet Parker

spring/summer 23

apr.

i held onto love’s hand as if falling

in a month of returning warmth

my breath talked back with frost-fogged words

who i will become

when i return to the house

i first practiced starving

may.

late spring bugs soothed my dying friend

frail baby bleeding in the back garden

unaware of his slowing heart

the days leading to loss were still soiled in grief

shadowed mourning of our last walk

in Bickford park each step echoed last

the final heaven-ish night under misted-moonglow

my family circled a cigarette

hoping he felt love longer in dog years

jun.

time handed me a nineteenth year

as the candle wax melted into sweet butter frosting

i whispered more more as i blew my wish

on that 21st night i opened my mouth

for the butch girl in lipstick cause i couldn’t

cry & i wanted to be crushed

july.

rosemary & thyme came back in bloom

my mom called me pretty for the first time

since i told her i was more than a girl

sun-spotted cheeks & plaited hair

caught the attention of old sweaty men

bellies hanging out on the pavement

aug.

on a drive to the antique market

I accidentally dropped my diary out the window

like a kid would

watched through the mirrors

as it sped behind me flying twisting

like some kind of magic trick

i learnt to forgive but slept with the lights on

pulled clothes off my hangers & felt grateful

as i filled boxes for beginnings

sept.

i cut my hair after dinner

apologized before my love yous

& goodbyes

i slept the whole train ride

clutching onto an empty seat

as home shifted again

returning that night was dark but my hands were as young

as my skirt was short & her teeth were white

so we kissed & i didn't have to think

this may be me at my best

Parla come mangi

Nonna once told me the taste of pastina was the taste of the south. With spoonfuls I could make out the shape of the stars in my mouth, calling me closer to a village covered with ache. She could stand by the stove till her knees buckled and back ached. In the kitchen warmth, she’d watch as we scarfed down the devotion of her calloused hands. It wasn't till she died that Dad perfected her pomodoro. Good grief to the Buon appetito that rolled off his tongue; the same sound as hers. When I’m consumed with missing her, and my stomach hurts, I remember my body is made of all the dust—from the crushed stars and dying skin, to stained wooden spoons and her recipe papers handwritten in half-English cursive. Today I sliced my finger, bled red across the cutting thing. Left my meal half made and tainted with pain. I sucked my wound till the gushing stopped. Dad called to ask if I'm eating enough, scared the importance of sit-down dinner has been lost since leaving home.

I promise I'm fed

I say. We learn to love at

a kitchen table.

F-WORDS

forgiveness

the fitted sheet pinned up on a line

slow dances in midnight wind

damp in apologies from habitual accidents 

the stained linen smells fresh come morning

forgiven by the passing night.

firsts

the first time i was touched was on the ground

in the balmy night panting and pretty

his salty tongue lingered in my breath

so i swallowed my own fingers like magic

when we ate he devoured both our servings

in the parts i can't recognize 

there's no room for my hunger.

failure

puppy won’t stop chewing the chair legs

we tried to train him how to sit heel paw  

but he doesn’t understand he's a dog 

without our human want for perfection 

he continues to destroy 

and love seven times harder.

fires

when the house burnt down the furniture stood still

melted were the memories of a body molded 

into a mattress purified by a passionate light 

that only wanted to spread and dance and

i forgive because i fear 

i am the flame.

flirting

i shape the next lover's voice to fit in my throat 

hand her a mic to become the star

plagued by want and the queerness of intimacy

in a place it's not supposed to be.

feminine

under the weight of my floral printed down 

i wept the way women on screen do

folded at my half point like pocketbook

in my fridge is a box of strawberries 

puffy and red i eat them with soft hands 

in one go i stand across from my mirror 

engulfed in desire to witness despair.

family

my family's grief mellows with a cigarette

i think it's because our bones are the same

since my dog died i am again the youngest

meaning all i taste is nostalgia 

from a time falsely charged with joy

sisters in the attic trying to live right

i can feel it this time 

she’ll make it out.

falling

as seasons drifted in my girl decided to love

through the orange and the cold

by the time tuesday arrives i can't remember 

the last time we traded touch

but when the sun comes through my window

spreading its warmth across the back of my neck 

i’m reminded only she has been this close.

Monet Parker is a 19-year-old student, poet, and visual artist. Born and raised in Toronto, they are currently finishing their BA in Creative Writing at Concordia University in Montreal, QU. When they are not writing about the moon, they can be found in their kitchen baking cookies, cakes, and pies from scratch. As a gender-queer lesbian, Monet’s work is invested in the voice of femininity through expressions of self-identity and bodily intimacy.