ditch,

the poetry that matters

D. Cole Ossandon

D. Cole Ossandon is a writer and multidisciplinary artist from Guelph & Toronto, ON. Her poetry has appeared in Matrix Magazine, Books@Torontoist, and in the Inanna Publications anthology Other Voices. Her writing has also appeared on music websites Battery in Your Leg, Rock Sellout, and IndieNorth.
She currently writes an online column for Shameless Magazine called Shameless Women where she interviews positive female role models for young women. She also runs Canada Arts Connect, which connects artistic professionals with jobs opportunities, resources, and each other.
Her various literary, musical, and artistic projects are all on her website:
http://www.DesireeO.com.

Bathtub of Pomegranate Seeds
 
Nipple-less mothers accused of breaking the law.
I will part     the colours     of my skin.
 
As Paul eats the planet
and John recites the Bible,
                                    I count the months     that are on fire
                                    and the weeks     to cool them down.
 
Covered in clown makeup,
                                          puking on the front lawn.
Watching a crow     on the bow     of a wooden boat.
 
 
Can I create something more profound than my experience?
 
     Sitting in a bathtub
          filled to the rim
               with pomegranate seeds.
 
 
Refusing to drink while the sun is still shining.
Naming your     left shoe     but not the right.
 
 
Firing eggs like cannonballs         
                                            and painting yellow suitcases.
 
 
Can I create     something more profound     than my experience?
 
 
 
 
 
 
Bring Apples to the Table
 
 
Carved tables
 
          you would never eat at.
An old man sitting
on the porch
                                                            with a shotgun.
 
 
Running for office in a small town.
          Kiss the left cheek first.
 
 
Aged photographs
 
          of still-working farms and broken fences.
Dry
our mitts
                                                            on the radiators.
 
 
Shuffling cards under the table.
          Merrily spin a consequence.
 
 
Sucking salt
 
          off sunflower seeds.
Spit them
on the table
                                                            with uneven legs.
 
 
She sat among the red poppies eating blueberries in her yellow cardigan.
She stood behind the frosted glass and cursed the never-ending snow.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Indulgence
 
Pushing the cork      into the bottle.
 
                    A glass of red wine
                    never intended for drink.
 
 
Sabering      a champagne bottle.
 
                    Hit the blade on the seam
                    or the glass won’t break.
 
 
Keep the genie      in the bottle.
 
                    There never really was a rule
                    against wishing for more wishes.
 
 
 
Coming naked to the circle,          sitting with legs wide open.
 
Sucking on Sugar Daddies
               – hard piece of candy on a stick.
 
Empties itself onto your chest.
 
The man with the pearl necklace
smiling confidently,
                               “I got what I wanted.”
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
More Skin Than Gender
 
Pornographic manifestos
          and ideological pin-ups.
 
I can touch more skin
                                  than gender.
 
Picky about what I put in my mouth –
I fill up with loaded threats
           and unloaded guns.
 
She looked up at me and asked,
                                                   “Are we superheroes
                                                                or villains?”
– then smiled when I answered,
                                                    “Both.”
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
Names in the Phone Book
 
My skin is falling –
                              bones reaching
to places
they were never
meant to grow.
 
Blue lips and shins embedded with concrete.
Praying for another five pounds.
 
Colour-coded species
relying on inappropriate gestures.
 
Screwing behind tinted windows and abandoned stables.
 
I’ve been running in the tracks of addiction
while the neighbours trim the hedges.
 
You:  
     not afraid to stick your fingers into small holes.
 
I:     
     threw out the phone book.


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                                                                                                                                                          Nov 17, 2010