Christine Lowther is the author of
A Cabin in Clayoquot (memoir)
and New Power (a lost childhood in poetry).

She continues in her aspirations toward sanity by spending plenty of time at her floating home in God's Pocket.

Monday's Poem

© Christine Lowther, 2004

In Review

I have made note of the fact
that while cleaning toilets all day for a living
you choose not to wear gloves

I picture you at work, sweating
taking a break to eat rank eggs and tinned sardines
food stains down the front of your shirt

you often tell me how regularly you masturbate
I have looked the other way
while you picked your feet on my couch

you always belch with gusto
fart with force
snore to wake the dead
violently sneeze on the spoon
with which you are stirring my dinner

you had gained weight
upon your return from the treatment centre
I noticed the empty ice cream cartons
strewn around your trailer and now
you've moved deep into the bush where
there's no running water so you
can't shower

but sit outside your shack
chain smoking cigarettes through stained teeth
I try to imagine you in relationship
with a teenager; what did you talk about?
How were you different?

you're getting old, guarding your lair with snarls
like some scarred bear, stiff but still
ready for a fight

I want to be making love with you
as soon and as often
as possible

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