these words by Khatira Mahdavi were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim
You asked me if I thought
you were pretty.
Pretty is relative only to
everything besides oneself.
When I stare deeply into the mirror
I become confused.
There are two versions,
one always melting into
the other.
The first: a goddess,
black magic turned blue.
A garland of roses
atop my head,
pure and perfumed.
The second: relative.
A wise aunt who shares dark eyes.
A brave father who shares resilient,
smooth skin.
You liked the idea that beauty
is ancestral and proud.
You asked how you could come to wear
a garland made of roses.
Together we looked in the mirror
and I removed my garland,
delicate as a newborn.
I let it settle on your head.
I let it bring you balance.
these words by Ivana Velickovic were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim
I didn’t taste a mango until early adulthood. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a problem of mango availability; I just didn’t like the idea of them. They were messy and sticky and watching someone eat that orange flesh was grotesque enough to put me off it entirely. Juice would dribble down their chin and then the sucking and slurping would commence. As a child, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My mother, long and sinewy, with skin as dark as polished wood, would offer me half of her mango. Usually, this would happen when she was barefoot in our garden, patterned fabric draped over her shoulders, a look that was very unusual in our Canadian suburb. Each time she offered I would shake my head no. I would feel a pang of embarrassment in my gut, even if no one was there to see. Over the years, she persisted despite my resistance. By my teenage years, all she had to do was reach for a mango for me to dismissively utter No thanks. I now recognize the sadness that would cross her eyes each time I would refuse a piece of her fruit, requesting an apple instead. My mother loved when mangos became available in stores, they were the only product she would splurge on because they reminded her of home.
I first visited my mother’s home, Martinique, when I was in my early twenties. It was strange seeing her in her element like that. She seemed to glide across the sand, her luminous hair flecked with silvery strands, fastened with a flower. I tried to mimic her, but my feet weren’t used to the uneven terrain of sand and my hair seemed to reject every flower that tried to nestle between its curls. When I tripped for the fifth time, my mother smiled and sat down next to me. I was clearly frustrated with my lack of grace and I think my mother sensed that. We sat in silence for a moment watching the waves. My mother reached into her tote bag and extracted a mango. Carefully, she sliced it into halves. Tentatively, she offered me a half. For the first time I accepted, happy to share something with my mother.
these words by Tristen Sutherland were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim
Someone once told me not to make homes out of human beings but with you I
couldn’t help it—
your body cradled perfectly against mine,
as if we were built to rest with our limbs intertwined.
We forged space for each other where there was none to be made.
I’d feel your heart as you held my head to your chest
I wanted to merge your body with mine.
But you were indestructibly you.
You lingered in the air, irresistible.
Exquisite, as you lay back, stretching out
beneath the sunlight of your bedroom window that splayed sparkles upon your cheeks.
As you unequivocally made yourself a part of my world.
these words by Annie Rubin were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim
For three days we have stared at the sea.
For three days we have watched its changing moods and colours, from turbulent grey to blue-green, to this ephemeral pink at sunset.
Tonight the pink is particularly brilliant, the calm lapping sounds like small reassurances of “everything is going to be all right.”
Having observed the sea, I know these reassurances are fickle. Poseidon is tempestuous, and the pinks could turn to angry storms of steel grey just as easily as they could fade to sunset’s late indigo.
We are, in fact, waiting for the sea to turn black. Not just twilight blue, or the deep navy in the hours after the lingering sun fades. We wait for blackest black, when no lights save for the moon and stars shine upon its still surface. We can only hope to encounter no searchlights, no vessels that claim to help but are really meant to keep us from reaching our objective.
When the pinks complete their inky transformation, we will enter the darkness. We pray that when we greet the sea at last, it will be more cool smooth onyx than roiling tar soup. We know there is a chance that we too could become one with the sea, could become part of its spectacular colours, like many of our brothers and sisters before us.
Despite this risk, we wait for darkness, watching the colours of this great obstacle to what we can only hope is our new home. As we wish away the sparkling pinks for dull blackness, we hope to one day look back at this sea with no fears and see nothing but calm pink water.
these words by Jo-Ann Zhou were inspired by the work of James Gilleard
Forgive me
For not coming any closer.
You remind me too much of my father,
And the type of men
Who destroy
Women like me.
these words by Nahomi Amberber were inspired by the work of James Gilleard
How to feel like how you imagined the city? A blur of light steps out of a cab. Stem of a glass in a ring on a wet table. Slink, slink. Would it have been better if you had moved into that little beehive level with the SkyTrain, whoosh all day, glow all night, little hexagram. One stool, one door, two windows at an angle with the tracks, tracks, track. Two windows! Rattle rattle goodnight all day. You imagined glass and water, heels and click, the film of alcohol across everything, city city. Little dots of light, little swipes. A secret: Vancouver is actually a series of small caves, mould like a dust of sugar powder, did you know? Saturday night aesthetic: the Chevron station for yachts in Coal Harbour, hovered out in the water, glossy black, little ring, orange light. How long did it take me to realize the white-hot squares at the top of downtown are penthouses? How long did it take me to realize those very regular fireworks are private planes? Why can’t I have, why can’t I have, why can’t I? What if we just kept living together, what if I just tried harder, what if I had moved to Toronto? All the women in this city say I love you, they say centered, we say seawall, we go home and murmur Toronto Toronto Seattle Toronto in our sleep. You don’t understand. I have an obligation to a girl in a barn, to a girl in a car, to a girl in the forest; she says Get Me Out Of Here, she says My Own Apartment. Is it possible to be dissociated not from me but the city. Like here I am arms and legs, here I am oh New York.
these words by Leah Horlick were inspired by the work of James Gilleard
This poem by Taisha Cayard was inspired by Audre Lorde’s “But What Can You Teach My Daughter,” published in Lorde’s 1978 collection, The Black Unicorn.
The little boy screamed when he heard the sound of smashing glass. He crept carefully, his tiny hands grazing the hallway walls. He was petrified, but more scared that he would make a ruckus and make his mother angry.
He knocked on the door.
“Mama?”
“Come in,” said the raspy voice behind the door.
The door creaked as he pushed it open. There, sitting by the window, was his mother. The white illuminating her dark brown body, her eyes seemed to glow in the dark.
“I heard a scary sound, Mama.”
She turned to him, all of her warmth filling him like a cup that runneth over. She gestured for him to sit near her. He climbed into her lap. She kissed his head and wrapped her frail arms around him.
“Did you hear it too?”
Her arms relaxed, she patted him gently on the knee.
“Yes, baby”
“What happened, Mama?”
He hopped off her lap, sitting closer to the window, peering out of it intensely, his eyes stirring.
“Where are they taking Daddy?” he shrieked.
She looked at him, sad for her child. Sad that he didn’t yet understand.
They looked down together at a man who had skin like their own. He stood planted, firm, bruises forming. The flashing light of the cop car cast an eerie blanket on the street, covered in red.
The boy whirled around, angry. He didn’t understand.
His mother turned away from the window.
“Mama! What are we going to do?”
She pointed at the cop car.
“Open your eyes, Charlie, and look,” she hissed.
The boy planted his palms against the window, his nose touching the glass, and he stared. The cop car windshield was broken. A bat, discarded, lay on the asphalt.
“It’s not Daddy’s fault,” he murmured, tears stinging his eyes.
His mother merely nodded.
“He did say, if they came back…something would happen,” she said in a sibilant, almost to herself.
He looked out again. There was a woman in a hat staring back at them. He burst out of the room.
“Charlie! Where are you going?” she asked.
But, he was gone.
He struggled to push the heavy building door. Then, he saw her.
He stood there, staring as her blonde hair rustled in the icy wind. Goose bumps dotted his arms. He forgot to bring a jacket.
The cop car was long gone. He didn’t know if he’d ever see his father again.
The woman kneeled, still facing him.
“Did you know the man they took away?”
“You saw it! Why didn’t you help?”
He pushed her and watched her fall to the ground, as if in slow motion. He watched her tumble, instantly regretting what he’d done. Still, he stood with his tiny frame, chest rising and falling with anger. He said nothing, as she had done.
He walked back to the building and reached for the correct buzzer.
Above, a woman in all white looked out the window.
these words by Nailah King were inspired by the work of Mairi Timoney
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