The Field Next To Love
My Aunt was fat. She wore her moustache gladly
to church. I am pie-deprived. I pursue my
moustache relentlessly. Admire iconoclasts.
My Aunt sang hymns with a voice like grass held
between your thumbs and blown on. Her God her Master,
submitted to with fervour. My God’s in hiding.
My Aunt said hoity toity and by golly. She’d been
wedlocked sixty years when she died. I know the
meaning of icthyophagous. I’ve been divorced.
My Aunt wiped hendirt off warm eggs as she
listened in on the party line. I flame my enemies
electronically, send blind copies indiscriminately.
My Aunt and I had nothing in common, yet
I loved her. She was blood, she was kin,
she was above all
familiar, and in me, familiar occupies the field
next to love; there are places along the border
where I cannot tell one from the other.
-- Marilyn Gear Pilling
Hugh MacDonald committing random acts of poetry in Charlottetown, PEI
Random Acts of Poetry
“I love to promote poetry anywhere, will stop strangers to read them poems and otherwise commit random acts of poetry. I thought it would be a good idea for poets across Canada to do the same thing.”
-- Wendy Morton, Founder