Three Poems—Amelie Robitaille

Cold Bodies

Carve me into ice, fashion me into a 
glassy sculpture one that lets you see 

just enough of what lingers behind
through me. Lift your chainsaw made to 

sputter my edges into smoother curves
chisel an ever-tapering body to last me 

just beyond the winter. My body will distort
those who hide in the shadow of the frost 

I will cast upon them. Any flaws upon my 
surface are your own. Scratch the tools that 

built me off until your nail becomes the very 
colour of my flesh. My mass is yours to wear

out. Mould yourself to my unbending hips
worship the creator’s masterpiece a legion 

of crystals to outlast the hypothermic hearts.
Deceive yourself into exposing your neck 

warm, throbbing––
I yield only to the sun.

Death’s Price

In bright sunlight Death will tap your 
shoulder if it senses you forgetting that her growing 
up will bring about your growing old.

She’s four there’s pitter-patter on the 
stairs she cracks the door and tumbles in she asks you
how to blow the moon into an air balloon;

if you could moor the stars to make a midnight 
sunroom; will you look below the mattress to make sure 
the mice returned to their own mother;

do you think the shadow’s feeling sad
about her being scared; could she befriend a fallen 
fly and teach it how to dance—

murmurs in the night remind you Death has
wept for worse than swollen hearts and taken more than 
pregnant bellies made of dreams.

There comes a time for Death to 
stare you down despite the night light 
you plugged in for her.

Headed West 

The used-up film rolls on,
a bird’s wings flap migrating up and down,
two-legged creatures long to flutter away too.

They cause a ripple in the clouds with 
a flash of en-lightning they become—
the used-up film rolls on.

Feathered up humans with rough talons 
sit upon thrones throwing shit at rodents:
two-legged creatures long to flutter away too.

Birthed by greedy mouths they want
more easy prey, more skins to lay—
The used-up film rolls on.

Come autumn birds fly off for good,
the man-made human feathers turn to shit.
Two-legged creatures long to flutter away too.

Yet they refuse to pay for the feathers now only 
good for dusting rolls they still refuse to change.
So the used-up film rolls on while the
two-legged creatures long to flutter away too.

Amelie is a writer based in Mississauga, Ontario. She is the Publisher and Creative Director of the Savant-Garde Literary Magazine. She holds a BA in Media Studies from Western University and is currently completing a degree in Creative Writing & Publishing at Sheridan College. Her work has been published by Crêpe & Penn and Headline Poetry & Press. French is her first language and she loves cooking, great puns, and cooking up a great pun.  

photo by Pexels (via pixabay) and Arttu Päivinen (via unsplash)