Thursday, February 22, 2018

Conyer Clayton



I pound my fist against your back
to loosen phlegm. I’ve always
told you smoking kills, but
you’d do it with ropes
and bottle tops. Your soles
unsteady on a wicker chair. 
Pour yourself into
one more moonrise.
Draw out the misery in me.
I can only see

this failing. You disappearing.
A man’s frayed face
and brittle leaves. A boulder
obscured in slow-moving fog.
I can only see

you vanished
among tall desert rocks.
Your mother says
she thinks she’s heard
the last from you,
and I can only see

the chair leg tremor.
Are the floorboards even?
Did you even check?

Conyer Clayton is an Ottawa-based writer who aims to live with compassion, gratitude, and awe. She has two chapbooks: The Marshes (& co collective, 2017) and For the Birds. For the Humans. (battleaxe press, 2018). Her work appears in Prairie Fire, The Maynard, In/Words, Bywords, Transom, and others. She won Arc’s 2017 Diana Brebner Prize and received third place in Prairie Fire’s 2017 Poetry Contest. Check out for updates on her endeavours.

No comments:

Post a Comment