A Friend Is Leaving Calgary
(listen to the poem, read by Diane R. Wiener)
I will knead the sloping curve of the train
from SAIT down the hill into the skin
of my tired forearms – adorn myself
in that brilliant loop of a feeling,
that descent into slick-solemn life.
I’ll start it up again, standing quiet
at the edge of the Jubilee’s parking lot,
a staid squinting image with patterned wrists
protruding out of careworn pockets.
I’ll watch that last light leave the city,
knowing full well there’s still another ember
in some sand-blasted basement,
and yet twirling towards simple exhaustion.
I know what I’m doing, and every year
I’m getting better at reviving steady indents
and breaking in flash cubes
in search of perfect pictures
of steady-ironic forbearance.
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Amnoon Harbor
(listen to the poem, read by Diane R. Wiener)
Cerulean. It washed across my knees
like some vague gift, or long-forgotten sign.
The lapsing waves and rising moon aligned
to beach my brain on pirouetting lilies.
The maelstrom stars were made again
as canvas roofs they hung from foxtail leaves.
That harbor built on the knife-edge of decline
now cleaves the purple orchid of my spine.
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What Feels Like An Ending
(listen to the poem, read by Diane R. Wiener)
Some bitter gift this is, our lovers born into
a grip of claws, a storm of cold delight, and seizing up
with peals of want, with reams of narrow spite
and torrents of desire, now frozen solid.
I hate to see them fall along that wintry well,
that slumbering tornado’s endless center.
The clear sky spurns them, speaks of ceaseless flight
yet casts the ground unfeeling into night.
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Arena Storage
(listen to the poem, read by Diane R. Wiener)
Where am I in this?
Some frightened cloth,
warriors’ casts of columns
weaving splintered wood,
rendered metal, keys and crates
and hard-as-diamond edges – am I
a complaining ghost,
a corrugation, a speck
of stone, a vapor?
I strain, and strain
again for any sense
of breaking clouds,
of maudlin mists,
imprisoned spectres
and sandstones soon
departing – but still, I fear
that I’ve become a fibered constellation.
A broken box, a torch without a holder.
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About the Author
Ethan Vilu is a student, poet, and editor from Calgary, Canada. Their poetry longsheet, A Decision re: Zurich, was published by The Blasted Tree in 2020. Ethan currently serves as both poetry editor and circulation manager for filling Station Magazine.