Culture | Inkwell


When I was a child, I wandered

the lip of a hole in the earth.

Overhead, the black web of electrical wires

hummed with a subdermal vibration,

The quiet sound of grinding teeth.

(breathed in and out—)


I was tightrope walker, circus freak, sparrow on a string.

So careful not to trip on the unearthed pipes,

glinting like iron-capped teeth in that black, yawning jaw;

Blackened like the black dirt, the soil of the little city.


(Dirty, shitty, poor city; gutted remains of the USSR.

And the fortune tellers said it had no future, that little city

– Leave now! Move away!)


The surrounding countryside was farms,

And ghosts wandering the desiccated corpse of the yellow steppes,

In all directions, stretched like the hide of a drum.

And when the black rain fell, it beat a tattoo on that sad land;

the echo of horse hooves.


Under my feet,

that damned hole was an empty eye in the earth,

Just watching the sky.


Comments posted on The McGill Daily's website must abide by our comments policy.
A change in our comments policy was enacted on January 23, 2017, closing the comments section of non-editorial posts. Find out more about this change here.