the poetry that matters

Lenea Grace

Lenea Grace was born in Calgary, but did not stay for long, as the bulk of her childhood was spent in England, Texas, and Oklahoma.  Since moving to Montreal at the age of 17, Lenea has travelled extensively throughout Canada by foot, car, train, and canoe. A graduate of McGill University and the University of Maine, Lenea is a teacher who lives in Toronto. Her poems have been published in Grain and EVENT magazines.


What is going on is what goes on and on.
It evolves and dissolves and involves staring at a wall with a side of
                            heavy drinking and sleeping with an old friend.
It rained two days ago and the rain turned to fog
                            as the plane landed and turned to snow when I awoke.
The cloud was a halo and let me tell you,
                I was not bound for glory,
                I was wound for destruction.
Don't confuse wound with wound.
One has to do with a ticking clock, the other with bleeding.
Bleeding hearts don't make a difference, but bleeding people die.
The other day I was told that chickens can die from broken hearts.
Well, I ain't no chicken, but that seemed logical to me.
You can drink all the beer you want and sleep to avoid living
                and live to avoid thinking,
                                             but you can't kill the rooster.
I did the old Australian crawl and listened to Loudon Wainwright
                because Martha can't come over anymore.
I saw your brother in the big lights of Bay and Gerrard
                and told him I would meet up with him sometime later that week.
I never did.
I'm surrounded by papers.
There's also an imprint of a deer's hoof print I made when I was 8,
                            several film canisters, a flask, a nametag, and a rock.
This is my desk.
In Toronto I sat at a coffee shop for five hours with Casey at a table that doubled as an arcade.
In Edmonton I sat on a couch with my father.
This summer I did swan dives and jack-knives for you all
                           and once when you weren't looking I did a cannonball.

Escarpment nearly killed me. 



Discard is a euphemism for throw away.
I was not discarded.

There are words that falter.
There are men and women who do the same.


a kayak, beaucoup d’argent, his parents
hair in wind, hands shaking hands
banners, placards, bumper stickers
(note: will he bring his boozy?)

the cinnamon peeler had a pen
the politician had a kayak
 (so who to believe now?)

traverse the atlantic, please,
and when you reach florida,
won’t you send me a postcard, senator?

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