the poetry that matters

Estelle Anderson

Estelle Anderson is a teacher and writer from Toronto.

unfamilia ii


scalded water

cauterized daughter

unzip the yellow lines

and burst all the seams

and metal rivets like thread

single rivulets always making you seem better

slice of light

undo her head

coil girl

unwind pristine unctions extreme pristine unctions

favouring none

sinisistic creation baby openhymer goddess

can you walk in a straight line?

machine dance for yes

leak pi for no

maybe should be a golden spiel of grace

from out your chest hole






In the dark, it seemed like

I had drawn the perfect heart.


Damn the dark, eh?

Some hell isn’t dark;

apparently a flaming frozen lake reflects like hell.

Was that woman over there laughing or crying?

I was wondering myself.

Some couples weather well.

Look at them: They’re enough for each other.

A spark sparks

under their shoes as they walk in the dark.

Don’t make me laugh.

Sometimes spontaneous exhaustion makes me laugh.

You make me laugh.

Did you know that, on average, happy couples

laugh 10,000 times over a seven year period,

according to Professor Cribdeath, my cat.

But his standards are always too high.

Or too low – Do you remember the smell of that green couch?

I was just figuring out how to clean everything

when one of the dogs threw up pieces of chewed tin

and lunch. Shit.

Life isn’t easy.

I’m ill about it.

It’s cute to have nothing to do, though.

Reams of it matters.

Reams of it.

But I don’t see any right now,

mattering, I mean.

It’s all about that dark material now.

One explosion in that thing and it’s ash and snow at the same time. Weird.

He told me that it’s the coldest place in the universe.

That’s not true.




fatherless sound


set me right here I forget

how foolish am I

cast off back

out on water

don’t let me fall in with him, God.




A cryptic historical tarot

for round here,

a design on a towel.

You roll over in the sand.

“You have no idea,”

one of us says.

I look out to someone sunset

someone drowning as sun sets

you’re a better swimmer but you can’t see

breakers crust over crepuscular

waves crowning over my head

you’re a little saw cutting through

crowns crepuscular with your hands

shading your eyes

you can’t see more than a lava lamp

but still you saw

It was not that deep

was the funnier thing.

I helped the man stand

up on a sand bar.

He was not so grateful.

He said, “You have no idea.”


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                                                                                                                                  January 1, 2012