From Correspondent. Published by Icehouse Poetry in 2018.

. Clockwork. Outside, nuns circle the pool in their black habits. Hands behind their backs, the white clouds of their voices. Snow falling on Quebec City’s copper roofs. A bell ringing. When she swims the backstroke, my mother balances a cold glass of water on her forehead. To learn to keep still. To learn not to shake when she runs out of breath, when breath runs out of her. The glass throws a ring of light across her freckled face. If it falls into the water, the clock will stop, go back to zero.

. Back on the open deck, he hands my father a blue and white grammar book. On the drive home, it lies closed in his lap. He runs his hand over the rough cover, imagines the secrets trapped inside.