Toronto’s grotesque

shapes behind her now,

Kelly.

The ogres puffing can’t

keep up. She

loses them in the Rockies

as she

carves through

Canada on her way

west to freedom;

sculpting difference from

a concrete family.

 

Over the mountains

a benign pacific face

greets her, beaming; the

wide, wide ocean welcomes.

 

The artist liberated, she

breathes the trees

and her

green eyes slice across

Vancouver harbour as if it were

an orange, bursting;

the fall of dusk;

 

she wields

anarchy and wet clay,

she yields

and molds and caresses

a new life – 1989.

 

I met her in the Stem

on Queen, at Spadina.

Her hands were so silent,

they were invisible in the

rush-hour light.

Candles in fire – 1986.

A reflection in the window.

 

Until she moved.

***

Originally published in White Wall Review 14 (1990)