ditch,

Sandra Huber is a Canadian poet living, writing and teaching in Vienna, Austria. She holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Toronto and a B.A. in literature from Simon Fraser University in Vancouver. Sandra Huber has been published in the milieu portfolio/anthology of canadian women writers, idea&s, Word For/Word, The Danforth Review, Philament, and am upcoming in Lexican. Lately she has given performances as part of the London Word Festival (London, England), the Schule für Dichtung (Vienna) and the Labyrinth Poets (Vienna). Her short story "Eels" has been selected as part of a Best of the Web 2008 anthology by Dzanc Press. She has received grants from the Toronto Arts Council and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council towards her academic and creative work & has presented at conferences in Denver, Colorado and Toronto.

Sive Sky

the more I know you the more I real

realize I’ve been d d d d dreaming o

of the more I know you the more I r

r r r real r realize                                                              we

cannot mistrust absence. it is our o

only monument.

I loose you to the fiction of beginnings.  To

the storybook seacoast we were never mea

nt to trespass with our too finite laughter. d

on’t be so surprised. i lose you like one los

es speech in shock, bracing for your return,

never asking what can be gained from silen

ce.  nobody knows what forever is.  every

moment a flimsy defence against the bla

nk weight of loss.

I loose you to the fiction of beginnings. (T

here is no here no there.)  I say I saw you

once: on a train heading southbound and

your eyes, they diced the passing light into

coherence (your retinas swallowed winter)

and my head, it fell sideways into the cold

window, the tremor of commute passing fr

om my gaze to yours.  Say you knew me th

en out of simplicity.  Because I did not ask

you things, did not touch you, do not satisfy

your curiosity, hold nothing of yours.  In m

y proximity.

I lied to you then about the dystopias of wi

nd.  Created syllogisms from the nonsense o

f your palm.  I would have bit your lip in play,

pressed my hand into the must of your back. 

An earlobe turned towards your mouth.

In retrospect, the dim falters.  The why 

I said the things you said the way I said.

Our most poignant scenarios abandon

to the debris of right margin, held infi

nite to the curser of interpretation.  Wh

ose missing voice forgives a loss. I wa

s here.  Once more and again our long

ings turn to marks as specialized as in

difference, ambling between somewhe

re’s pavement and the mutually exclu

sive sky.

Neither missing from me nor I from you, 

no surmise, only simply:  that I give every

thing now.  Everything.  How do I say this. 

What is lost in lover’s language (that we

come to this alone).  That you have everyt

hing. You have everything you’ll ever nee

d.

I am c com com com

completely honest wi

with you. I put up n n

no I put up up n n n n

no walls with you. i li

ft each hand to write

that we cannot erase

an end.