by Tanis MacDonald
Pathologists may be the physicians
who write the best stories, or they may be
buffoons. Every body does not tell; we
wish like ten stars that a body was one
story that lasted, or that we could tack
life in pins to a pattern. My aunt
does not believe in heaven and I can’t
answer her with plain scrubbed fact
why my mother died. She needs plot, cut
though I am to hear it fester like theft
in me. Blister it. There is nothing left
remarkable beneath the visiting moon but
the irony of me painting the non-story on
a canvas I didn’t stretch. I’ve a smart mouth;
no question. And Cleopatra knew: no doubt,
the moon wanes and waxes. Dark side gone
and walked on – bleeding makes us nothing
but elegiac, erotic, ecstatic. I can keep
accounts, pay outstanding bills and eat
what will not kill me, spot a falcon, sing
a round. The moon makes her nightly visit.
We’re only human error, and the moon
doesn’t remark us: September bleeds June.
Nothing’s how we expect. Is it.
Tanis MacDonald’s fourth book of poetry, Mobile, is forthcoming from BookThug. She is a poet and creative non-fiction writer, founder of the Elegy Roadshow, and co-editor of the menstrual anthology GUSH (due out Spring 2018). She is a Canadian literature and elegy specialist teaching in the Department of English and Film Studies at Wilfrid Laurier University in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada.