A mass of hair and limbs buries her face
into a magnolia flower; three days ago
this tree was nothing but bones and desire.
A child pushes into a cupped hand.
A hand grasping towards the sky,
hungry for air and sun and warmth.
It is April and still snowing.
The forsythia, in a shock of yellow,
has come to Toronto’s defense,
attempting to drive back winter.
Mary Pickford (of 211 University Avenue),
a mass of hair and limbs, is desperate:
It is April and still snowing.
In a pet store, a goldfish’s glint
pulls at her eye, pulls at her hand–
pulls her towards its gilt, crescent body.
She is running down Bloor Street,
She is running with a dancing fish,
cupped between her hands;
she is running.
She slows in tandem with the fish,
Its fervent dancing has tapered to a hiccup.
Mary Pickford drops its limp and brilliant body,
a street car passes, a fish lies still and golden.
Mary shoves her nose towards stigma,
anther and odour. Seeking solace in a tree,
heavy with fleshy petals.