Vol. 1, No. 11, February 2, 2014
Edited by Kirk Ramdath
In Memory of P.T.
by Celine Chuang
Every November you reappear
A brittlethin brightness in the chest,
crisp like breaking of yellow leaves
when the sky is too blue to look at.
(clear penumbra, cold wind)
We your students have our own now
Perch, posture-imitators, to the piano’s right
Listen carefully for the inflection of your syllables
in Rachmaninoff and Chopin
Your swooping pencil birdstrokes
press graphite from my hand into looseleaf.
You told me once it would be a quiet funeral.
The little church was full.
The night after Thanksgiving dinner
I dream of you in your best suit,
dancing to old records
a glass of brandy in your hands
(steady wrist, crinkled skin)
Celine Chuang recently completed her BA Honours in English at the
University of Calgary, with a creative thesis on the mnemonic constellations
formed by food in family and culture. She is also a poet, musician, and artist
on the side, dabbling in photography and graphic design. In her work, she
likes to explore the sacredness of the quotidian, the character of quiet, and
the various moments of vertigo that propel the hungry heart.
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