ditch,

the poetry that matters

Louise Bak

Louise Bak has authored a couple of books of poetry, Gingko Kitchen and Tulpa (both Coach House Books). Her performance work has appeared in a number of videos and other contexts in North America and Europe. She co-hosts Sex City, Toronto’s only radio show, exploring sexuality in relation to art, politics and culture, on ciut 89.5 fm. She also hosts the Box, a quarterly salon night of readings, performances, screenings, interventions and networking that aims to bring diverse communities and audiences into an environment of artistic and social intermingling. The feature film she co-wrote, “The Ache” is in development. Louise is involved in sexual and cultural investigations weekly with toro, http://toromagazine.com/?q=taxonomy/term/27 

She is working on another poetry collection.

At Twelve


little to say to eclosion of a luna moth, as she rubbed her eyes with my thumb
she took me by my elbows, while a hug retained along a twelfth determining

question, as i placed the Moulton back, saying she can notice it unappealably, 
how my serafuku had what’s left of neri ami kneaded nether gooseberry notes

i placed sizeably rather near the neck. my uneven desk leg was audible as she
with arms compressed across her breasts, uncurled her milko-chan with slope

of antecollis, along with closed-mouthed smile, as she watched the ever slight
bunching of the flesh behind my arms when i bent to pick up torn yama-uban

flip-out. she took up the pieces of pink mohair she split from a second mouth
at the top of its perm, to chopstick covers left unstirred. each lichun bowl was

pushed back to centre, each i lapped to be colder then the next. leaning on my  
elbow, the neck of my shirt opened across a shoulder, her next quiver of half

stares, imperforate.  i leaned back on the lambing, as she stretched to ablation
of a roundel on my neck, gingival uneasiness she placed to disclose a pruritus 
 

 
 

 

Nuptial Rites

her hand stroked my hair around my ears.  feng-huang feathers hushful with
tied pieces of shuen, tossed over lifelong glasses stuck onto maple branches 

i cover the sill with alternating pecan sandies and gummi lighthouse sukha
staring down at fat choy multiplying in the birdbath, as he moves his hands

four fingers used like a fast-moving maneki neko, to her voice insisting it’s
time and I’m led, the beaded cerise tassels on corners hiding my looking by

pair of van erp vases, portioning elegance by the dollhouse with its kamado
set she’s giving. i peer in to the hearth sunk in the floor, its nearly inaudible

tiny yelp, as his waiting by a standing mirror shifts his black cap negligibly
i lift the kotatsu and blots of heat are tossed against the walls, disarranging

happiness banners over her catatonic refrain in unclosing his used butsudan   
with aged buddha’s ushnisha smelted to stacks of gold, his moveable rasmi

like a magnifying loupe as he peers through the entrance, to sit on zabuton
adjusting calone impressions in preparedness, while i totter along the room

encircle the dollhouse, as if gathering serviceable indication of its elevator
grille’s concentric ovals and the interiority of descent uncluttered from the

corridor i ascend to, exuding the reread of scroll thrown afore a takotsubo
as he kneels by the delicate tied cups, emetophobic by a saxaul i set off to
 

 

 

Ocean Dome

she begins a tulip twist at amethyst edging of queen headalloon,
   placed over his kerion, as he holds his nose to salt-free breeze
 regnant with scent of rubber-rings around girths in washes
  of artificial sea. across her back, he spreads apricot kernel oil
 where kanji names of his friends are etched, his disappearing
   in irezumin surf.  reappears at unhurried speed, as she rolls
 to catch a balloon nebuta of O Toyo’s garden. she curls to lean 
  cat’s nose leather, so acromegalic alongside tensha beads of
  polyuria she places in patches thru his tsuke hige. assistive
     stretch to kata guruma knocks him across inflating balloon
by choppy fits of san nachi laughter. she lies with maillot straps
   eased away from skin in crushed marble sand, cropped by the
  water. the tie-dye cyanophores squeak to an induration of a
 latex arm, as his eyes descend along concave line of her spine.
    he can’t determine the noiselessness, when his lips fasten to
 nadir of briarean leash. he pulls the plasticity of mantle cavity
over his chest tightly, as the eighth stump tries to dispose rising
   sun amigurumi he clenches, where he goes to get phimosed


 

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