I wrote this poem as an experiment in prose poetry during an advanced poetry course. (It has since been edited.)

I wrote it with my husband in mind.




Do not forget how it feels to immerse your hands in the sink full of suds leaning against your lover drying inhaling Sea Breeze and the sounds of concern to walk barefoot on sun-stained grass amidst the clatter of chastising moths their beating wings dusting you with metamorphosis as you fetch the ball to shouts eager awaiting your embodiment with hair follicles and perspiration


Do not forget awkwardness sitting alone in the college cafeteria where students harass like ancient companions on this conquest for Great Conversation which you long to enter with your longing the moment you lock eyes with hers and suddenly the pang of loneliness transmutates into stilted sweaty-palm conversation and another and each time your palms sweat less and before long you recite metallurgy while she quotes Millay and your dreams collide in amniotic pheromones their manifestation intoxicating


Do not forget the successive series recorded in your memory of his hand on the steering wheel how the skin felt from smooth to rough to spotty — the healed scar — how his hand has touched me in only the right ways and do not forget silence how we walked countless trails without speaking because we had memorized each others’ great conversations



W.O. Mitchell

I enjoyed studying Who Has Seen the Wind in a Canadian Literature class. I first read the novel decades ago, a random pick at the bookstore. Apparently, the editors of some editions left out portions, likely for an American audience. The most recent edition includes all of the missing bits.

I went to the U of C to research W.O. Mitchell while writing a paper on the novel. At the archives, I was able to hold and read his uni papers, and correspondence with his family, other writers, editors, and the Governor General of Canada. It felt odd having that sort of view into the world of the acclaimed writer, but also very cool. While thought of as a Calgary-based writer, he lived and wrote significant works in High River, Alberta.


W.O. Mitchell Came to Town


I felt the wind when you came

like Santa Claus on a prairie night;

you rattled the windows

and stole down the chimney.


The harvest moon howled

and even laughed a little

at your tall tales from Grandma

and Uncle, Sean;

stories about those thirt-ys dirt-y

farmers who

fought cougars and bears

like David,

and made their homes

where the sky touches the earth

all around our town.


?You have another story in you

from the wind.

–I will listen.


I held your manuscript today.

I could feel where you pulled

the pages from your typewriter

before you sent them to

the editor

who sent them all

far and wide

from the prairie to



I saw where your professor had

corrected your grammar, syntax, and diction.

But not your ideas;

never your ideas.


?What was your mark;

it was erased.

?Were you embarrassed.

They didn’t know who you’d be.

?Would they have marked you differently



You had questions about

the wind. You knew Digby couldn’t


Now you know

the wind– uncontainable

will go where it may.


I read your mail today.

I was angry, too,

about the books I hadn’t known.


Your letters are carefully kept

from Atwood, Mowat, the GG,

and your mom; they are

artfully, archivally preserved

behind glass doors and

a statuesque lady.


You’ve done well, kindred spirit.

?Tell me your secrets.

You were good and faithful.

You built a bridge between.


Rest wind; rest well W.O.

Enjoy your orchids.

And thank you


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 Summer North Coming  read & signed by the author

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