Tag Archives: Canadian creators

MOONLESS NIGHT

By Lorraine Caputo

This moonless night is
bathed by the orange glow of
street lamps. Clouds lie low
on the mountains, then tendril
through the folds of this valley.

Rain begins again,
at first a whisper, its voice
growing stronger , a

monotonous murmur …


Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 19 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honoured by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels on Facebook or through her website.

NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS

By Micki Findlay

Cold
hard
crunchy 
Robust, ruby gem 
dangling high on a serpentine limb 
Dancing with the autumn breeze 
enchanting 
enticing 
inviting
Hollow groans lurch from my belly
Reaching up on tiptoes
I gingerly twist the scarlet orb from its branch 
A gnarled leaf clings; lifeless
Careful. Don’t drop it. Never EVER drop it!
I know, only too well, you can’t always see the bruises
but they’re there
Running home, I pause before creeping in the kitchen door
I must be quiet. I must ALWAYS be quiet!
Staring at my contraband
I begin paring off the smooth, red veneer
It lays there dormant in a frenzied heap
But for how long? 
Its façade stripped away, there’s no more pretending 
I can feel it seething 
staring 
glaring 
The silence frightens me
I know what’s coming 
Trembling, I cut into the white flesh
It spits at me, stinging my eye
Mistakes are not allowed. Mistakes are NEVER EVER allowed!
My hands quiver as I cut faster, faster, faster 
before it spews its frothy disdain… again
Slice. Precision. Slice. CAREFUL! Slice. 
Something catches my eye. 
Terrified, I look down
A silent scream echoes in my head
BLOOD!
I should have known 
I dared to believe 
to hope, to challenge
Tasting bloodied tears, I glance at the pasty-white slices 
laying there motionless
small
exposed 
powerless
Today, I fought back
Did I win?
For now…


Micki Findlay is a contributing author for Chicken Soup for the Soul, Jazz House Publications, and a freelance columnist for Oasis Magazine, where she features local artists making a difference. She is also a songwriter, memoirist, poet, and digital artist. She feels very blessed to live on Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, amongst many talented and innovative creatives. You can find her website here.

The Hanged Men

By Owen Schalk

“The present conditions of the country are no more than the threshold of a profound…and most important examination of consciousness.

– Pasolini on the eve of the Italian Civil War (1943-1945)

They found a man with bricks in his pockets hanging under Blackfriars Bridge in London. His name was Roberto Calvi. He was the chairman of Banco Ambrosiano, which was in the midst of a historic collapse following revelations of financial irregularities worth billions of lire. The main shareholder in Banco Ambrosiano was the Vatican Bank, which led many Italians to dub Calvi “God’s Banker.” Some joked upon his death that his main investor had finally lost patience with his management.

Calvi had been missing for seven days, and much like Michele Sindona, it seemed like everyone who mattered wanted him gone: the Holy See, the Sicilian Mafia, the political establishment, and associates of Banco Ambrosiano ranging from Polish anti-Soviet groups to Nicaraguan drug traffickers. There were so many suspects that it took people ages to notice the clue right under their noses. Calvi was hanged from Blackfriars Bridge. “Black friar” in Italian is frate nero.  Frati neri was the internal moniker of members of the Propaganda Due (P2) Masonic lodge, a subcutaneous organism within the Italian body politic that sought an extreme rightist restructuring of the country’s political and economic life based on the model of another hanged man, Benito Mussolini. Its members included prominent businessmen, media moguls, military officials, intelligence officers, representatives from Southern Cone dictatorships – and Roberto Calvi himself.

P2’s Venerable Master was Licio Gelli, a financier and card-carrying fascist since his youth who assisted in the failed Borghese coup of 1970 and subsequently fled to Condor-era Argentina, where he built close relationships with many high-level junta officials. According to the P2 theory, the complete exposure of Calvi’s financial indiscretions would lead to the unmasking of the lodge’s long list of crypto-fascists, some of whom had public profiles to maintain. The organization covertly murdered Calvi and dangled him from Blackfriars Bridge as a not-so-subtle “keep your mouth shut” to other P2 members who might be thinking of abandoning the sinking ship.

Everyone had someone to blame for Calvi’s murder, and every suspect was connected by one or two degrees of separation. Nobody was on trial, but in the minds of the public, the defendant was both multitudinous and singular: it was the arcane, cabalistic, Svengalian knot of deep power that pulsed and steamed and continuously expanded in the core of postwar Italian society.

Susanna Betti was unique. She blamed someone nobody had thought to accuse of Calvi’s murder. She blamed herself. She’d never met Calvi or Gelli or any of the other revenants of fascism burrowed in the country’s power centers – what use would they have for a Friulian professor of Marxist literary theory? – but within her was a latent premonitory gift that had revealed the place and manner of Calvi’s death two weeks before he’d fled Rome. She knew he was marked for death.

The first time she saw tarot cards was at a street market in Testaccio. She was thirteen. She made her parents stop so that the fortune-teller could reveal her future. She later learned that he used a rare pack – the Tarocco Siciliano – in which l’appeso, the hanged man, was depicted as hanging from the neck, not the ankle. Susanna remembered the card so clearly because it was the first one he flipped after she asked, “Do I have the Betti gift?” He gave her a five-card reading. She didn’t remember if the hanged man was upright or reversed, and she couldn’t recall the following cards, but she was pretty sure that the final one was the Fool.

She thought of the hanged man once more, on the morning of May 28th, 1982, after a dream illuminated her hereditary clairvoyance. She was seated under an ebony bridge, watching the black water roll by. The glow of a streetlamp made faces in the ripples, an ever-shifting visage of light that occasionally rhymed with the features of a family member or friend but otherwise remained a stranger. She looked up and realized that the face was not actually a trick of the light but the reflection of the hanged man, who was dangling from the bridge. His face was turned down as though he was expecting Susanna to tell him something. “Well?” he asked, raising his hands inquisitively. There were bricks in his palms. “Am I upright or reversed?”

The upright hanged man represents reflection, growth, and the possibility of uncovering a new understanding of one’s place in the world, which is the ultimate goal of all fortune-telling, not just tarot. The reverse-hanged man embodies stubbornness, the intellectual blockage produced by over-analysis, the opposite of intuition. Susanna didn’t know what to tell him. To make him feel better, she joked, “You look pretty upright to me.” That only made him sadder. He stuffed the bricks into his pockets and closed his eyes. Then she woke up.

She didn’t realize that her dream was a premonition until it was too late. That was the Betti curse.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

Her family had long understood that one member of each generation would receive a preternatural awareness of the death of an epochal figure in Italian life. The recipient could either stop it or allow it to proceed – that is if they were able to figure out who the marked person was, which was a difficult task in and of itself. As far as she knew, no Betti had ever been able to stop the death. Her father, Luigi, claimed to have foreseen the shooting of Communist leader Palmiro Togliatti in 1948. According to him, he had waited at the rear entrance of Palazzo Montecitorio every day for three weeks until, one sweltering July afternoon, he spied Pallante creeping up behind the PCI chief as he walked to his car. He was holding a small, rusty revolver. Luigi dove into action, grasping Pallante’s wrist just as the would-be assassin put one bullet in the back of Togliatti’s skull. He wrestled his hand down, directing the next two shots at Togliatti’s torso and saving him from a fatal trio of headshots. Togliatti was rushed to a hospital and revived. Luigi ended up regretting his actions when Togliatti abandoned the factory workers who went on strike in his honour, urging them to stick to democratic means rather than wildcats and vandalism. “He’s a bureaucrat,” Luigi resolved. “He doesn’t want revolution. He cares more about getting invited to Stalin’s dacha than helping us proletarians.”

There were several problems with Luigi’s story. Firstly, Susanna’s mother Mira claimed that he wasn’t even in Rome at the time of the shooting but visiting his parents’ farm outside Tarvisio. By the time he hurried back to the capital, the strikes had already been broken. Secondly, Luigi was in his thirties at the time of the shooting. It was unheard of for Bettis to receive premonitions before their sixtieth birthday. And lastly, it had been accepted familial knowledge since the killing of Cola di Rienzo that only one member of each generation could experience a vision of an epochal death. His story was further undermined in 1978, two years after Luigi’s death from lung cancer, when his younger brother Pieri received a vivid forewarning of the kidnapping and murder of Prime Minister Aldo Moro. Pieri chose not to intervene, of course: he was the family’s fascism nostalgist, and he hated Moro for supposedly compromising Italian democracy by negotiating with the communists.

Growing up, Luigi and Pieri lived in the Friuli countryside on their father Jacum’s poultry farm. Jacum was a pragmatist, an antifascist liberal who had foreseen Mussolini’s hanging a la l’appeso and allowed it to proceed “for the good of the nation.” He didn’t like Togliatti because the Americans didn’t like him, and in 1948 he voted Christian Democrat to secure US reconstruction aid, which Truman vowed to withhold if the PCI won the presidency. Luigi called his father a coward and cast his vote for Togliatti. He’d been a communist ever since stumbling upon an outdated issue of l’Unità, the PCI newspaper, in a Tarvisio alleyway while delivering his father’s chickens to the butcher. He flipped through it, read a disquisition on the plight of rural workers that resonated with the struggles of his youth, and registered with the party that week. He briefly convinced his younger brother that communism was the only equitable path for Italy. Still, when Pieri turned eighteen, he fell in love with a girl from a staunchly Catholic family who lived in the hills around Udine. Her father, one of the city’s largest landowners, liked to talk politics with his daughter’s suitors. He imparted to the impressionable teenager a worldview that valued law, order, and rigid hierarchy above all else and romanticized the era of strongarm fascism over the turbulent electoralism of the immediate postwar.

A few months later, Pieri married and moved his wife onto the farm. Luigi argued with the couple so viciously that eventually, he couldn’t stand it. He packed his bags and marched off to Rome. Jacum died five years later, baffled and heartbroken that politics had the power to tear his family apart.

For a rural migrant, Rome of the late 1940s wasn’t a miracle waiting to happen. It was the home of crime and poverty and the borgate romane, wherein lived those whom Pasolini called the sottoproletariato (for his part, Luigi thought Pasolini was a degenerate and an individualist, and once said that if he’d been lucky enough to foresee the writer’s death, he wouldn’t have changed a thing about it). Susanna’s earliest memories of her father were of a weary, heavy-lidded factory worker coming home late to their ramshackle hut on the urban fringes and smoking at least a half-pack of cigarettes before dinner. He rarely spoke except to lambast Togliatti and Berlinguer as “sellouts.”

Mira was a communist too and a dedicated PCI supporter even after Luigi grew disillusioned with the party. She didn’t work outside the home. Like the PCI leadership, she believed that the Catholic nuclear family was the heart of Italian society. She did her part in this regard, staying home each day to make meals and to keep the shack in pristine condition for her husband’s return.

Unlike her mother, Susanna saw the appeal in earning her own way. She graduated high school and worked a variety of dead-end jobs, earning enough money to pay her way through one year at the University of Rome (her father covered the subsequent costs). Her first year was 1968. Bloody, sweat-soaked ‘68. The sessantotto. It was a pivotal moment for Susanna’s political development. Not only was it her first year at university, her first year of lucent left-leaning history classes, which gave structure to the communist doctrine she’d been weaned on as a girl, but it was also the year that her father told her of the Betti gift.

It was family custom to inform each generation once the youngest sibling turned eighteen. As an only child, Susanna didn’t have to wait for anybody. The gift was on her mind during those months of protest. She saw death everywhere: in the news of peasant revolts across the countryside, in the Molotovs of agents provocateurs, and in the snarling barrels of the policemen whom Pasolini defended. At the time, she misunderstood her father’s explanation. Susanna thought that she and her friends were all epochal defenders of the Left, and every time one of them approached danger. She envisioned the worst; she took credit for their survival. She didn’t realize until years later that “epochal” didn’t mean those with potential, those who might one day achieve something: epochal meant power, and power meant the knot. It meant Calvi, Togliatti, Moro, Mussolini – it didn’t mean Susanna Betti and her boyfriends Silvio and Alessandro, whom she’d met at a student club for tarot enthusiasts. Those boys weren’t powerful, era-defining figures. They made it safely through the summer of ’68 and settled into cozy teaching jobs at the University of Rome, maintaining their friendship, if not their relationship with Susanna. She had long ago accused them of being sellouts of the petit-bourgeois.

Susanna aged into comfort too. She graduated with honours and took a job as a teaching assistant in Naples to avoid the awkwardness of working alongside Silvio and Alessandro. Eventually, she became the head of the literature department. Every year, she taught a seminar called “Pasolini and the Making of Italian Neo-capitalism.” Now that she had aged out of youthful dogmatism, she had a new appreciation for his work – although she still held a grudge against him for “The PCI to the Youth.”

She was thirty-seven when her premonition of Roberto Calvi’s death welcomed her into the upper echelon of chosen Bettis. She felt lucky. She had often thought that it was cruel for her family to receive visions when they were so old and had so little time to comprehend the death in its broader historical context. That was how she felt about Calvi, her hanged man. His death was distinguished, epochal, but without a historical distance, she didn’t know what it had meant or how Italian history would have changed if she’d been able to stop it. She looked forward to understanding the death in its proper context in the coming decades.

While thirty-seven was unusually young for a premonition, the giver of visions must have had a keener eye for the future than she did. On December 23rd, 1984, Susanna was on the 904 express train to the University of Milan, where she was scheduled to deliver a lecture on Pasolini’s final film, when a bomb in the ninth car detonated, killing her and fifteen others and injuring over two hundred passengers. The perpetrator of the 904 bombing, Giuseppe Calò, was arrested the next year for ordering the murder of Roberto Calvi.

At the moment before the bomb tore her to pieces, Susanna understood something. Maybe it was the Betti gift, or maybe a religious epiphany courtesy of the God she’d shunned her entire life, but in the instant before her particulate evisceration, she understood the nature of the knot. She understood that Calvi, Togliatti, Moro and Mussolini, Luigi and Mira, Pieri and Jacum, Silvio and Alessandro and Susanna herself were all the hanged man. Power was the knot on the noose around their necks, tied by the hands of an executioner whose name they all knew. She saw ahead to the arrest of Giuseppe Calò and Licio Gelli, their trial for the murder of Roberto Calvi, and their surprise acquittal due to what the court deemed “insufficient evidence.” She didn’t care. She understood who killed Calvi, and even if it wasn’t the same man who killed her, she knew that their nooses were tied by the same hands.


Owen Schalk is a writer from Winnipeg. He grew up in the countryside surrounded by rural emptiness, abandoned houses, and farm-loving German Canadians who tried and failed to instil their love of farming in him. He found his artistic curiosity while reading the usual canon. He found his voice while reading Pynchon, DeLillo, Bolaño, and other authors who write with a critical eye for dominant social and political doctrines.

Guys Like Him

By Maia Kowalski

My father started going to church again after he got divorced the second time. Whether it was because he felt guilty or suddenly pious, I’ll never know, but I was forced to go with him every Sunday morning. I don’t know why he wanted the company. We didn’t do a lot of stuff together. Maybe he couldn’t face the good Lord alone.

I had been put in Catholic school growing up. Still, at 16, I wasn’t really interested in whether God was real anymore, let alone sending a prayer to him. There was so much singing and sitting and standing. I refused to believe every service was only an hour because it felt so much longer than that. I didn’t think anyone really wanted to be there either. I figured they were just nervously mulling over all the things they had done in their lives, things they knew would eventually catch up to them. 

We never wore our Sunday best. In the beginning, I admit I tried. I wore dresses that I hadn’t worn since eighth grade, stuff that somehow still fit me because I didn’t have anything nice enough for service. Dad wore dress shirts and slacks. But as time went on and the weather got warmer, the both of us gave up. I’d be there, sweating under the church’s impossibly high ceiling fans, in denim cut-offs and a spaghetti-strap tank top. My father wore the same beige cargo shorts and a white polo. I was convinced he never washed them. Every week I swore I smelled last week’s incense, threaded in-between the cotton.

I’m not sure what my father prayed for. He seemed focused, diligently repeating prayers with the rest of the congregation and singing Alleluia with gusto. He kept his head down the longest in prayer once everyone had gotten Communion. I wondered if he was being honest with himself about all the missteps he had taken in his marriages. Sometimes, though, I wondered if he was praying for a third wife.

My father’s marriages were rocky at best. His first one, with my mother, was almost comical, the way they fought in front of and behind me, how they whispered venomous words to each other at bedtime instead of sweet nothings. It became routine for me to listen to their fights before bed. I pretended to be asleep as they tucked me in, and as soon as they left my room, I snuck behind their door frame and listened to the sharp tones and hisses, wondering if I should interfere. The thing I remember most was an argument at dinner, full of the same old yelling crap, me keeping my head down when my father suddenly stood up. His face twisted into something stupid when he was angry, the way the wrinkles in his forehead rolled into his browbone, and the overexaggerated frown lines around his mouth. He looked like a pug throwing a tantrum. But that night, he towered over my mother, who was still in her seat. He spat curses into her face and clutched his dinner fork in his right hand. Then the fork went down, past her, bounced once under the table and settled on the floor with a clatter. My father walked away from us; I heard the front door slam shortly after. My mother got up and cleared both their plates while I sat at the table alone. Then she went up to the bedroom, and I didn’t hear anything from her for the rest of the night. I pushed back my chair and went over to the place where my father had thrown the fork. You couldn’t see anything if you weren’t looking for it, but in a certain light, you saw the evidence: a shallow groove in the dark hardwood. I ran my fingers over it. It looked like it had hurt. 

That was the first time I realized I was scared of him. I didn’t creep out of bed anymore when they were fighting. I went straight up to my room after school and ate my dinners quickly. My parents divorced later that year. 

My father’s second wife, Iva, left my life as quickly as she had entered it. It was a few years after the first divorce and lasted only three years. But within those years, she had moved in, rearranged our apartment furniture, tried to bond with me by watching old episodes of Friends and then she was gone, without so much as an explanation from my father about what had happened. I was disinterested in his life by then, much more than I had been when he divorced my mother, so peppering him with questions about a woman I barely knew would have seemed out of character for me. He only spoke about it once, when we were in the car, waiting for someone to back out of their parking spot. He said it the same way you’d recite a badly-written riddle: “Sometimes, Evelyn, you meet people, and you think you’re on the same page. But then, later on, you find out that you weren’t the whole time.” And that was it. I just nodded and looked out the window. 

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

It was sticky and hot the morning we met Daniel. We had left the apartment in a rush, as usual: me, taking my time, hoping I would be so slow that my father would let me stay at home for once, and my father, rushing me along, snapping at me for not getting my shoes on fast enough or getting out of my pyjamas in time. On Sundays, church started at 9am. Neither of us ate breakfast, so the Holy Ghost was our appetizer before we went for our weekly brunch after service. The weather report that morning had said it was going to hit 30 by the afternoon, but at 8:45, it was already humid and felt like 25. When I opened my bedroom window, there wasn’t even a hint of a breeze; when I stuck my hand out, only stagnant, warm air surrounded it. My father and I threw on our usual summer-church outfits: cargo shorts and a polo for him, denim cut-offs and a loose tank for me. We slipped on our sandals and flip-flopped our way down the hall, into the elevator, through the apartment lobby and down the street to the church. Looking back, I’m not sure why we rushed. A lot of people in our area were rich — like, rich-rich — and I had seen more than a few minivans, and Range Rovers with canoes strapped to their roofs pass by on their way to cottage country. In the last few weeks, I noticed the average churchgoer change from couples with young kids that ran up and down the aisles during service, who sometimes had to step outside to soothe their screaming baby, to seniors that smelled like sunscreen and mothballs, wearing sun visors indoors and who only sat in the front pews.  In the winter, pews were packed. It wasn’t uncommon to stand in the aisles during service. Even in the spring, with all the holidays, there were times when the church was at its capacity. But in the summer, people took a break from school and work and, evidently, their faith, to bask in the sun for a while. I didn’t blame them. I’d want to do that too if that was the kind of family we were. 

But since there was a great migration up north to swim and kayak and roast marshmallows over the fire, there was no need for my father and me to rush to service that Sunday. The double doors were open to allow airflow. As we ran up the steps and into the foyer, hastily dipping our fingers into the dish of holy water to bless our arrival, we were greeted with the heavy sounds of the church organ and rows upon rows of almost empty pews. My father and I walked over to the side aisle and halfway up the floor before slipping into an empty row. I saw the usual seniors kneeling in the first three pews, all single patrons, their balding heads or perms a dead giveaway. Dad and I were dishevelled, to say the least. We were both panting, catching our breath from running straight from the apartment, and I wished those ridiculously high ceiling fans spun closer to my body to give me a more satisfying cooldown. The organ was still playing, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the altar boys and priest walking past us down the middle aisle with their holy books and crosses. I slowed my breathing and tried to pull my shorts down a little in an attempt at modesty. Dad smelled like sweat, dark circles growing underneath his armpits. 

When the priest reached the altar, he bowed, walked up to it and kissed it. That was when we heard running footsteps, huffing and puffing, and sharp whispers of “Hurry up!” coming from the side aisle. Nobody turned around but my father and me to see a blond-haired, blustering mess of a man running with a small child. They stopped halfway up the church and shuffled into the pew in front of us. The priest hadn’t sat down yet, so neither had any of us. These two latecomers did, though, and groaned in relief as soon as their butts hit the wood. Then the organ stopped, the priest sat down, and so did the rest of us. The blond-haired man wiped his forehead with the front of his shirt and fumbled in the pew shelf in front of him for the right book. He passed the child a copy of the missal and opened one of the songbooks himself. The child kept his head down and started sifting through the pages.

The blond man turned around in his seat. “What book are we supposed to be using?” he asked me. He had a babyface but wore glasses that made him look considerably older and made his eyes look smaller than they should’ve. They were half-fogged up from all the sweating. Then his eyes shifted, and he saw my father. His face broke into a grin. “Patrick?”

I looked at my father. He was smiling, too. “No way. What are you doing here?”

“Church shit,” the blond man said. “Whoops. Not supposed to swear in front of the kid.”

“I didn’t even recognize you,” my father said. 

“Are you calling me fat?” was the blond man’s reply, and while my father laughed quietly, he still got shushed from the handful of seniors that sat around us. 

The blond man rolled his eyes. “Bunch of sticklers,” he said. “Hey, what are you doing after this? We should catch up.”

“I’m –” my father began, but Lorraine, one of the weekly older ladies sitting in front of the blond man, turned around and glared at him. 

“If you must talk, go outside,” she said, her red lips pursed. 

The blond man sighed loudly and looked back at my father. Later, he mouthed and turned back to his songbook. 

The priest stood up again and recited the opening prayer. All the churchgoers repeated it in a deadpan unison. When the choir began to sing Gloria, my father leaned over to me. 

“I knew him in school,” he whispered. “His name’s Daniel. And I think his kid’s name is Ethan, but I could be wrong. It’s been a while.”

A man with wiry grey hair and circular glasses that made his eyes look like an owl glared at us from across the aisle. We looked over at him briefly before turning back to the choir. 

“Anyway,” my father continued in a quieter whisper, so low I could barely hear him beneath all the singing. “He did gain weight, so that’s why I didn’t recognize him. But don’t tell him that.” He grinned at me then, as if we were sharing an inside joke. I gave a small smile back and then dropped it because it felt weird to do it while we were supposed to be listening.  

Once the hymn ended, the first reader stood up from the front pew and walked to the podium with a book in his hand. He read the first reading of the mass to silence. Daniel, in front of us, was still sweating. I could see small drops of it slowly dripping down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. When we all stood up to sing another hymn, his knees cracked, and he groaned loudly. The seniors across the row glared at him again. 

It was usually by the second reading that I started counting the minutes until church was over. There wasn’t much after that except for more singing, a couple of peace be with you‘s, communion and church news. Some days we slipped out right after getting our daily bread. Other times we stayed behind, just in case the church news contained some gossip. But it usually didn’t.

During the priest’s homily, Daniel hunched over on his phone. His phone volume was low, but I could hear the clicks of a keyboard and the swoosh sound of messages being sent. Ethan swung his legs underneath the pew, sometimes hitting the pew in front of them. Lorraine turned around, a frown on her face, and looked Ethan up and down. Daniel put his hand on Ethan’s leg and hissed, “Stop,” causing Ethan to sit abnormally still. From where I sat behind them, it barely looked like he was breathing. 

They didn’t shuffle out of their pew for communion like we did. When my father made eye contact with Daniel, Daniel just shrugged comically at us. We lined up behind the other patrons to take the bread of Christ from the priest and then looped our way back around. Once we knelt to pray, uncomfortably close to Daniel and his neverending sweat, Ethan looked over at his dad. 

“Why don’t we get that?” he asked, in a stage-whisper.

“Ask your mother when you get home,” Daniel said. He was still hunched over his phone.

“But I’m hungry.”

“We’ll get McDonald’s on the way out. Be quiet.”

Everyone was in their pews. My father and I sat back. The priest walked to the altar to deliver the church news. Nothing interesting to report. 

I spent about half of the mass watching Daniel’s sweat dot his collared golf shirt, and the other half checking in on Ethan, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell, how his breathing quickened whenever his father glanced over at him. This mass passed by quicker for me than others, for which I was grateful, but not by much due to our companions.  Still, I was happy when I heard the concluding hymn and the closing procession. The priest followed the altar boys down the aisle towards the back of the church. Ethan arched his head out around his dad to catch a glimpse of the procession. As they walked by, Ethan’s eyes bounced between the sparkly gold cross held by the altar boy, to the Bible held by the priest, to the priest’s face. It was almost as if the priest knew because as he walked by, he looked over into Ethan’s pew and smiled at him. Ethan smiled back. Daniel noticed and looked down at his son with a scowl. Then he turned to us with a disgusted look on his face. My father raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, holding in a laugh. I looked at Ethan, who was fiddling with his shirt again. Once the full procession had gone, my father and I did a half-hearted genuflect in our pew and filed out to the side aisle. Daniel and Ethan didn’t even bother pretending to do one before following us out. We merged with the handful of seniors coming out of their pews to leave the church. Daniel sidled up to my father and swiped his arm. 

“Since when do you live around here?”

“Since…how long has it been?” My father looked at me, and I shrugged. “Maybe six months?” 

“I had no idea. I thought you were more uptown.”

“I was, but Iva kept the house. So, here I am.”

“You and Iva split up?”

“Just last year.”

Daniel whistled. “Strike two, eh?” 

“It happens.”

“You found God or something too, then?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

I didn’t know where Ethan was until Daniel pulled him out from behind his legs. He stumbled over his own feet, and Daniel held his arm tight in order to prevent him from falling forward. 

“This is Ethan, by the way,” Daniel said. “Rebecca put him in a Catholic school this year, so we have to do this kind of stuff now. They don’t really give us a say once the papers are signed, eh?”

“You’re telling me.”

I wasn’t surprised that my father got along with Daniel so well. He was good at the whole chummy-chummy social thing, especially with people that were similar to him in personality: unabashedly arrogant, know-it-alls with a hint of aggression. Sometimes I felt like I was watching a movie the way he interacted with people like this, the way his facade wouldn’t slip for a moment until we were home. I didn’t know who my father was in these moments. It was fascinating to watch. 

Daniel tapped his son on the head like a dog. “Say hi, Ethan.”

Ethan looked up at us, eyes wide, with an intention to wave but without the courage to follow through. With a drop of the head and eyes to the floor, he hid behind his father again.

“Shy, of course,” Daniel said, a note of distaste in his voice. He tried to coax Ethan back out from behind him. “Must have gotten it from his mother.”

I was very uncomfortable. I hated conversations like this, ones that rebuked the parent who was absent for traits their children couldn’t control. Maybe you made him like this, I wanted to say. Maybe he’s too afraid to be anything else than shy. I knew that feeling all too well. 

“And who’s this?” Daniel asked, looking at me. I didn’t like looking into his tiny eyes, so I focused on his nose: small and unassuming. 

“Evelyn,” my father said. He was smiling as he said it, which I found unusual. 

“Evelyn,” Daniel repeated. He studied my face for a while longer. “You look just like your mom. Thank God, too.” He gave a hacking cough of a laugh that made some of the seniors around us turn around.

My father said, “Hey!” and playfully slapped Daniel’s shoulder. “Speak for yourself.”

“I am!” Daniel said. “My kid didn’t get that” — he pointed at Ethan — “from me.” He laughed again, and so did my father. I pointedly looked outside, past the open double doors. 

“Well, Pat,” Daniel said. “We should grab a drink sometime. Not weekends, though. That’s when I have this guy.” He tapped Ethan’s head again. Ethan winced.

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll bring Mark with me,” Daniel added. “You remember Mark, right? Psych 101?”

“Course I do.”

“He just got divorced, too,” Daniel said. “He’ll probably need a drink.”

Another laugh between the two of them. 

“You have my number?” my father said. He took out his phone, and they swapped numbers, grinning like two kids during frosh week.  

Daniel gave him a salute, and me, a wink. “Cheers,” he said. 

Then he turned towards the exit and put his hand on the back of Ethan’s head, pushing him gently ahead as he began to walk. Ethan dragged his feet until Daniel awkwardly leaned over mid-step to grab Ethan’s hand. They went down the church steps together, Ethan stumbling on the cracks. When they were out of sight, my father put his hands in his pockets.

“Huh,” he said, letting out a sigh. “I never liked that guy.”

I stared at him. He didn’t seem to be joking. “Really?”

“He’s so loud,” my father said. “He was like that in school, too. I thought Lorraine was going to kill him when he arrived late today.” 

“She was pretty close.”

“I almost wanted to warn him, but I figured he deserved it if she said something. He didn’t even go up for communion.”

“I don’t think he knew how.”

My father laughed at that. “I guess not.” He paused. “Did you like him?”

“Not really.”

“Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you around guys like him.”

I stared at him again. “Yeah. Me either.”

On our way out, we dipped our fingers into the bowl of holy water again, blessing ourselves. We walked out the doors and into the heat, the humidity building up on our skin. Our sandals slapped the pavement in an irregular rhythm as we walked back home.


Maia Kowalski (she/her) is a writer from Toronto, Canada, and has degrees in journalism and creative writing under her belt. She has been published in Yolk Literary, and Montréal Writes. She is currently putting together her first short story collection. Find more of her work on her website.

A CLUMSY LITTLE STORY

By Fereshteh Molavi

Let me tell you a story, a clumsy little story. 

Not once upon a time, but this very day, or precisely yesterday, or surely tomorrow, a newcomer joins the old-timers of our city who were once newcomers too. Well, that’s just the way things happen – not that the oppressive powers of a poor country imposed it or the thoughtful policymakers of a prosperous country planned it. Strangely enough, the newcomer of our story is a novelist who is not lucky enough to write in the pachyderm language of the world or even in this country’s second official language. Yet, more than other immigrants, he lives in a world of imagination and dreams of what might be possible in the land that gave the world Anne of Green Gables. I suppose you don’t want to ask me, “Why?” Or do you?

People always say that immigrants go through a hellish ordeal in order to gain future benefits, either for themselves or for the next generation. That’s just the way things are – not that there is a pre-planned pattern for it. It’s simply the price of living in the Promised Land. Strangely enough, our immigrant writer in the honeymoon stage would be more than happy to pay any price to live in a Wonderland where he could write his novel, A Middle Eastern Double Bind, without worrying about censorship and other restrictions. 

Despite the fact that our writer comes from a land haunted by magic realism, he is realistic enough to expect that it takes time to get established in a new place – no matter whether it’s hell or heaven. After all, the fact that Canada has room for all comers doesn’t mean that immigrants get treated to a red carpet. Furthermore, our writer’s ears are sharp enough to hear the first lesson: “An immigrant is an animal without Canadian experience.” So he has to forget everything other than “Canadian life experience,” which means, first and foremost, finding a foothold in a city constantly stretching to accommodate more and more immigrants. Moreover, our writer’s memory is fresh enough to recall that even in his native land, the answer to the question “What do you do?” should be anything rather than “I’m a writer.” Because if he answered that, the next question would be, “Wonderful, but what’s your job?” Our immigrant novelist decides to temporarily sacrifice the Double Bind he longs to write in order to get bread, if not butter. Strangely enough, hunger and lack of a roof over the head have a way of defeating the pen. That’s just the way things happen – not that anything’s wrong with any particular social system that doesn’t treat writers well. 

Soon it turns out that what at first looks like a mere hiatus is going to become a life sentence. Our protagonist works hard, jumps from one survival job to another, improves his English as a Second Language, takes a never-ending series of evening courses, and grabs any kind of Canadian experience in the hope of getting a better-paying job and finding the luxury of enough free time to read books instead of newspapers or flyers and, most of all, to finish his poor Double Bind. Strangely enough, our hero, still optimistic, tries to write the novel in his mind while running to work or to school or while labouring at an assembly line or in front of a bakery oven. Time passes and brings about a change of status and a few extra bucks, at least to the extent that our new citizen can indulge himself in a cup of coffee in a Starbucks, read news about literary events and, if it doesn’t conflict with his work schedule, even attend an arts event — if it’s free. Yet, these aren’t the only changes. Rapidly his physical energy and health are being undermined. The more our former novelist experiences the Canadian lifestyle, the harder it is to call himself a writer and to remember that he had wanted to write A Middle Eastern Double BindWell, that’s just the way things are – not that the new country or even the old one has any hand in that.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

If the first lesson for the immigrant is that he lacks “Canadian experience,” the second one is that he must develop the hide of a rhinoceros. Strangely enough, the immigrant writer of our story is determined to get back on track and reclaim his literary identity. He then encounters the roadblock question, “Do you have any books published in English?” Blaming himself that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be trampled by the elephant of English, our immigrant writer summons enough energy to translate some of his works into it. From the start, our suspect writer knows that this, at best, cannot be anything other than a long shot. What becomes frustrating is that the time he squeezes in for translation means that time is stolen from finishing his Double BindBut that’s just the way things happen – not that the policymakers of Canadian arts and culture disregard the golden “Multiculturalism Act.” 

Well, if you expect a neat ending to this clumsy little story, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Strangely enough, the story of an immigrant writer whose first language is not one of the major European ones is at best nothing but A Canadian Double Bind. This immigrant, who was once a writer, takes refuge in Canada to escape from an authoritarian regime that didn’t let her be a writer by making his homeland a cage. He chooses Canada as a new home because of its fame, not only as a democratic peacekeeping country but also as a land of multiculturalism. Alas! It turns out that lack of censorship doesn’t necessarily guarantee writing and living as a writer. It also turns out that the chosen land cannot be anything more than a purgatory, if not a hell, for a writer who doesn’t write in English or French. Besides the challenges of immigrant life, which can be overcome in a way or another, this writer likely encounters a high risk of losing his professional identity. To overcome the latter, the possible scenarios are: (a) He ignores the English market and keeps writing in his mother tongue, being content with getting published abroad by small publishers with no distribution system and a tiny, random readership. He thus remains a stranger on the CanLit scene. (b) He quits writing in his first language and starts writing in English. In this case, he sacrifices his mother tongue to English and proves that multiculturalism is nothing but a myth. And, even if the writer succeeds in producing a work of quality in English, he is unlikely to compete well in the market with English- speaking, Canadian-born writers. (c) He strives to keep a balance between his dual identities and languages and chooses translation as a medium. In this case, because of the lack of institutional support, the writer has to bear his own cross and function as a translator. 

Anyway, one may say, “That’s just the way things are.” — not that anybody is wrong, other than the person who wants to live and die as a writer. 


Fereshteh Molavi was born in Tehran in 1953. She lived and worked there until 1998, when she immigrated to Canada. She worked and taught at Yale University, University of Toronto, York University, and Seneca College. A fellow at Massey College and a writer-in-residence at George Brown College, Molavi has published many works of fiction and non-fiction in Persian in Iran and Europe. She has been the recipient of awards for novels and translation. Her first book in English, Stories from Tehran, was released in 2018; and her most recent novel, Thirty Shadow Birds, was published by Inanna Publications in 2019. She lives in Toronto. You can find her on Twitter or on her website.

LOST SOULS

By Brittany MacBeth

I looked out across the eerie, placid waters.

“Well, gentlemen, here we are,” I said, excited and nervous to start this new chapter.

Thomas and Issac were settling in and unpacking their things.

“I never envisioned myself becoming a lighthouse keeper,” Thomas replied.

“How hard could it be?” Questioned Issac.

We had only met each other on the boat ride in. I didn’t know their past, and they didn’t know mine.

Hell, we were only on a first-name basis at this point. We finished putting away what belongings we could fit into our small bags and headed out to investigate the terrain surrounding the lighthouse.

Jagged rocks outlined the perimeter, and the lighthouse itself sat on a cliff. To describe it as dangerous would be an understatement. The view, however, was breathtaking. The ocean was oddly still and could be seen for miles. It was almost hypnotic, allowing thoughts I was trying to bury to resurface.

“It’s getting late,” Thomas yelled, breaking me from my trance.

“Let’s head back for dinner,” I shouted back.

On the menu tonight was rice and dried pork. We sat together at a makeshift table and made small talk, getting to know each other better.

“Thomas, what’s your story? Wife? Kids?” Issac asked.

“Neither. I lost the love of my life a few years ago. I haven’t been the same since, can’t bring myself to move on.” Thomas hung his head.

“You aren’t alone there. I just found out my wife has been having an affair for at least the last few months and that the baby I thought was mine is most definitely not.” Issac said, shovelling rice in his mouth.

“What about you, Ben?” Thomas asked me.

I froze. I haven’t talked to anyone about my past, let alone to people I just met on a boat.

“Actually it’s bizarre how we all have suffered trauma in different ways. I lost my entire family in a row boat accident. Throwboated out too far, while a vicious storm was rolling in… I tried so hard to get to them but, there was nothing I could do, I swear!” I surprised myself with how defensive I was getting.

The others just stared at me. Trying to conceal my trembling hands, I cleaned the few pieces of pork I still had on my plate and excused myself from the table.

My sleeping arrangement was small but sufficient, and I laid on the bed gazing at the ceiling.

I really did try to save them. I’m trying to start fresh.

Even though I could still hear my wife’s cries for help, I drifted off to sleep. As always, my slumber didn’t last long; after tossing and turning for an hour, I decided to take a walk.

The air was cool, and the wind was picking up. Maybe the waves hitting the shore would be soothing? Buttoning up my trench coat, I headed towards the water’s edge. To my surprise, the ocean was completely still. Not a wave or even a ripple. But the wind was intensifying. The hair on the back of my neck started to stand up. Then she appeared, walking across the top of the quiet ocean. It was my wife, but she no longer had a face. The outline was there, but it was all a pale white canvas. But yet without a mouth, she was still screaming!

I awoke the same way I always do, in sweat from another nightmare. It was part of my routine at this point. It’s been two years since the accident. I thought taking this job would feel rewarding. Like somehow, if I could do my part to save others out here, I would feel better about not saving my family. So in a way, I was excited to start this job to maybe silence the voices that haunted my dreams. To maybe forgive myself?

As I walked outside, I realized there was a storm rolling in. Great. This was it. Testing us to see if we could handle this job or not. The three of us strapped down anything we thought could be taken by the wind and made sure we were on high alert to warn any ships out there.

As the night passed, the wind howled, and the water still didn’t so much as ripple. Thomas and Issac didn’t question it, so I just kept this observation to myself. We ultimately saved some ships from the wreckage throughout the storms, risking our lives for strangers, but the voices didn’t stop. The nightmares didn’t stop. All three of us were damaged, lost souls just trying to feel whole again.

Days passed, then weeks, then months. The isolation on this island was harder than expected. We did our best to be good to one another but being stuck with the same people for months at a time was getting to all of us.

“It was almost like this lighthouse was cursed.”

Things started to fall off the rails the night that Thomas walked into the cold, motionless ocean. Thankfully Issac and I caught him and convinced him to come back to the lighthouse. I have never seen a man’s eyes look the way his did. So empty and unemotional. He told us a lady in the water beckoned him to follow her into the icy depths. The craziest part was that he claimed that this woman looked just like the love that he lost. He was so adamant it was her. Thomas wasn’t the same after this incident; he barely ate and didn’t rest. Just pacing the shoreline looking for his love.

We chalked it up to just hallucinations until he took his life; I mean, we can only assume. Yet again, he was convinced he saw this woman out in the ocean, and he left in a rowboat, vanishing into the night. There was nothing we could do to stop him; he threatened to harm us with a knife. In his deranged state, there was no way he made it to the desired destination.

It was almost like this lighthouse was cursed. Like the souls we couldn’t save, or the ones we had lost were calling to us. Taunting us.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

Issac fell to the madness next, kept claiming that he heard a baby crying every night. I tried to reassure him it was only the wind. We’ve had so many storms, yet the waters lay still. He, too, became distant.

I found him floating, face-up, eyes black, along the rocky shoreline of the island. I assumed he drowned. When I radioed out, dispatch said they wouldn’t be able to reach me until the morning because of an anticipated storm and that I would have to ride out the night with my dead coworker’s body.

That night the voices got louder; the wind was screaming. How was I supposed to endure this storm with a rapidly decaying body? I needed desperately to get off this island.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse- it started,

“Daddy, daddy, please help us.”

I wasn’t dreaming this time; I know I wasn’t. Again, I heard my daughter’s little voice. I wasn’t about to let this lighthouse take me down, to fall to its curse. Not like the other men, letting those unsaved souls take me away. I TRIED TO SAVE YOU, DAMMIT! I screamed into the lighthouse, my voice just echoing back to me.

Abruptly my wife was there, slowly descending from the staircase. This time she has a face, eyes hollow, skin hanging from her bones, and she’s wailing…but…smiling. An evil, horrible grin is plastered across her entire face. Before I can even process what’s happening, she is dragging me out of the lighthouse and towards the cliff. Her strength is otherworldly. I’m trying to fight her, but I am proving to be no match.

Before she throws me to my watery grave, I can faintly hear police yelling. They are coming to rescue me! I am flooded with relief. How did they find me so quickly?

“Hands up! Police!” They shouted through the wind.

But my wife didn’t raise her hands, and then everything went black.

“Was the lighthouse curse following me?”

I awoke in the hospital, grateful to have survived. What was going on? I was handcuffed to the bed. I screamed for the doctor. There was clearly a misunderstanding.“Doctor, what the hell is going on here?”

The doctor came in and curtly asked me what I remembered. In as much detail as I could, I recalled all of the events that occurred over the last several months. Starting with what was intended as a fresh start but ending in such unspeakable terror. She looks at me as if to be studying me, and then she begins…

“I have to be honest with you. That is not how the last WEEK has transpired,” she slowly began. “You see, Ben, you had a psychotic break two years ago and murdered your entire family. Then you dumped their bodies in the ocean. You were diagnosed with schizophrenia and committed to a psychiatric hospital.

It is there that you escaped with two fellow patients Thomas and Issac. You three managed to reach an abandoned lighthouse, and that is where you hid yourselves. Ben, you murdered them too. Thomas and Issac’s bodies were found in the lighthouse. You strangled them and hid them. The bodies also showed signs that someone stripped the flesh off of them to consume. I know this is hard to hear, but please don’t try to deny it. We’ve been through this, and all of the evidence points to you. When the police finally found you, you were ready to jump off the cliff. That being said, you are now being charged with two additional murders. You are an extremely sick and dangerous man, Ben.”

I sat there numb. This couldn’t be true; it was the lost souls that took those men’s lives and my family. I lost them in an accident! They have it all wrong. Was the lighthouse curse following me?

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples as if somehow that would help me make sense of everything. When I opened my eyes, the doctor was joined by a detective who was eyeing me closely.

“I tried to save them. It was an accident. I TRIED TO SAVE THEM DAMMIT! LEAVE ME ALONE!” I said, trying to explain to them.

I struggled against the restraints. The detective slammed his fist on the side table in frustration, but when he did, the water in the cup didn’t ripple. Zero movements. It brought me back to how odd it was that the water didn’t move by the lighthouse. She’s here. I’m not crazy!

The hairs on my arms start to stand, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see what is left of my wife peering around the hospital curtain. Faceless again.

“SHE’S HERE! BEHIND THAT CURTAIN, YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!” I screamed at everyone in the room, desperate for her to stop tormenting me.

Security was called.

Then darkness again.


Brittany MacBeth is a daycare provider by day. By night, she is a writer. Her passion is to dive deep into people’s imaginations, forcing them to think outside the box of ordinary. She lives in New Brunswick, Canada, with her husband and three kids.

A Gathering of Leaves

By Jessica Lee McMillian

On a shelf of volumes bound to me, binding,
I extend the vertebrae, the body, a gathering
of sewn leaves, limbs of multiple endings,
luminous spines in column palette
 — stacked either way, verticals to heaven — 
tattooed with lofty cursive,
worlds folded under covers
ready for open palms

Under my jacket, I spill anatomy,
my vellum skin, organ of written word
and backbone stacked in raised bands, up
to my ink-cartridge head,
tongue inscribes paper scars

On porous pulp, under nose musk vanilla scent,
under fingertip, text densifies, nerve ends
to cellulose walls — acid-pregnant
and fading bones on shelf, hinges split
under inherent constituents — 
tactile script imprints fingers
in archeology of touch

In fullness and fall of leaves
we harbour the word
in the cycle of autumns
in demise and rebirth of book,
the body ever writes, is written


Jessica Lee McMillan is an emerging BC poet with an MA in English. She likes crooked, shiny things, and her writing explores architectures of perception, existentialism and longing in nature and music. You can find her work in A Poetry of Place: Journeys Across New Westminster, ShabdAaweg Review, RCLAS Wordplay at Work, Bewildering Stories and Pocket Lint. When not writing, doing front-line legal work or teaching, she spends time with her little family and buries herself in books and records. She writes from a charming, gritty, historical river city in British Columbia.

Ephemeral Gold

By Jessica Lee McMillian

November in ephemeral gold
pauses, scales tipping
to shine’s burial

sun drop apparatus,
draws last breath of dream
before spilling rain,

before architecture of dark
makes widow of colour
this tilt of brazen tone,
of diffused focus
is richest in mind,

fully in the eye
but dies in the heart sweetly


Jessica Lee McMillan is an emerging BC poet with an MA in English. She likes crooked, shiny things, and her writing explores architectures of perception, existentialism and longing in nature and music. You can find her work in A Poetry of Place: Journeys Across New Westminster, ShabdAaweg Review, RCLAS Wordplay at Work, Bewildering Stories and Pocket Lint. When not writing, doing front-line legal work or teaching, she spends time with her little family and buries herself in books and records. She writes from a charming, gritty, historical river city in British Columbia.

The Anatomy of a Funeral

By Jessica Lee McMillian

Standard-issue funeral option
tombstones are concrete slabs
like ashes in a cardboard box,
aggregate mixtures of concrete sprawl,
a parade through life and death 
we can’t commemorate.

The horizontal sidewalk ribs
set the tone for every street,
like every memorial,
each fine, horizontal line
strains eye to expansion joints
dutifully stepped over, 
lest a spine you break
the spaces you went rogue–
that which is left out of the eulogy–

courteous platitudes,
and no reminders
of an untimely end,
in lieu of dead flowers,
paths are trawled clean
to keep appearances neat.

Slipped into the gutter lip
down the steel grate
 — the surfaces of psyche — 
resist the wood forms we fill,
the coercion rebar hiding the quakes,

the defiance of footprints
cast in wet, unfinished selves
begging for grass,
begging for a roast, not a speech.


Jessica Lee McMillan is an emerging BC poet with an MA in English. She likes crooked, shiny things, and her writing explores architectures of perception, existentialism and longing in nature and music. You can find her work in A Poetry of Place: Journeys Across New Westminster, ShabdAaweg Review, RCLAS Wordplay at Work, Bewildering Stories and Pocket Lint. When not writing, doing front-line legal work or teaching, she spends time with her little family and buries herself in books and records. She writes from a charming, gritty, historical river city in British Columbia.

Reading Gutters for Grass

By Jessica Lee McMillian

The sky is brittle paper 
on a salt-rimmed horizon,
a smog bath ring
blushing unwashed skin
of alleys,

bruised mint not cutting
garbage juice breeze
or piss in the park

but my eyes are scanning
for more than just survival,
reading the gutters for grass

brushing off grey plastic
as musty cracks in concrete
feed the earth more moss
with scraps for sight

and scent nebulized sweet 
in river algae, a trade-wind 
sucking away city char 
and exhaling perfume 
from the toasting bones
of wooden beams

in weary-of-century-homes
— front doors agape — 
dressed in a décollage
of dust matte paint 

where this baked street 
has green shade 
under its sharp tannin maple
sugaring the signs of triumph 
in such muddle


Jessica Lee McMillan is an emerging BC poet with an MA in English. She likes crooked, shiny things, and her writing explores architectures of perception, existentialism and longing in nature and music. You can find her work in A Poetry of Place: Journeys Across New Westminster, ShabdAaweg Review, RCLAS Wordplay at Work, Bewildering Stories and Pocket Lint. When not writing, doing front-line legal work or teaching, she spends time with her little family and buries herself in books and records. She writes from a charming, gritty, historical river city in British Columbia.