the poetry that matters

patti sinclair

patti sinclair is published with Palabras Press, Synchronicity, The Prairie Journal, and ascent magazine. She is the author of Motherhood As A Spiritual Practice and the chapbook red poems.
she has performed with the raving poets, the roar, edmonton's stroll of poets and is currently working on a performance project : the red earth women poets.
she lives and writes on her blog
and by prairie and ocean.
she is currently working with red nettle press


Put it through the eye.
You can thimble-read, a sewer said.

Stole a yellow one. The rest brown, plastic.
None small enough for my finger.

Pricks her index. Lips as red.
Why are colours called shades?

Shadow my eye, keep the burn out.
Stitch the skin with snow white

Rage, mine's only tiny,
big enough to hold the dike

Have you ever looked inside?
It's dark, the capital pocked, convex.



red bird

of all things

small ridges
like the edges
of the fifty-cent pieces

wrapped in white tissue
his happiness grows like a layer cake
until the coin collection becomes his

she could lend him
her ribs

his buttocks
being close to pink
and with red
being a girl's colour in the sixties
she ritualized buying each
a Christmas decoration
writing the year on them

could count on
those decorations
of all things

even dying
the light in her eyes grow
like when the red bird
came alive, flew
imagined the gentle beating





break apart

when he says

salt of earth


break apart

lips dry

not yet split


break apart

riddled finger

points at me


break apart

knowing he

feeds off rock


break apart

live in place



break apart

like a bat

in my chest


break apart

sand I thought

was hard stone


break apart

under pools



break apart

fresh of him

salting me




even so
she brings her bag of fears

no longer a back-story of wounds
but emersion
in a story
of change

there are no surprises
when it is this thin, the stew

and she naps
astral travels
with no one



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