β» ABOUT . ISSUES . EVENTS β»
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I almost hacked my own leg off the first time I used an axe and every time after. Cigarettes in a garage, then my garage, then outside the idea of containing movement altogether. When a coyote chased my horse through the crashing jagged ice of the slough, I vowed to never get a dog, and I am still married to that terrible loneliness. I have been dishonest with myself then keyed the truth into the bathroom stall. The paint was red underneath the black. I thought of skinning a ripe cherry to bleeding. When I strip my stained sheets to be washed, I bundle them in my arms like a baby and nuzzle it to death. Playing cards with the summer camp kids who only spoke Mandarin gave me a quick hand and a sixth sense to know when I am not wanted. Sometimes I heeded it, pilgrimaged to the pile of rubber dodgeballs and waited for someone to hit, but sometimes I won. In what sense do we make ourselves. I hold a leash with nothing at the other end, the clip begging to hold and be held. I donβt know if it was me or the road that snapped my front tooth in half when I fell off my bike, but I was proud of my new guillotine mouth. I am getting so efficient at killing beautiful things that will kill me back. Give me the axe again.
Jade Palmer (she/her) studied English and creative writing at Concordia University and currently resides in Tiohti:Γ ke/Montreal. Her poetry, often concerned with how the dark human imagination creates our individual worlds, was shortlisted for the 2024 Austin Clarke Prize, won the 2024 Concordia Creative Writing Award in Poetry, and has been published in long con, yolk literary, Headlight Anthology, LBRNTH, and elsewhere. She cohosts Accent Open Mic and is really getting into stout beers.