I didn't write this poem

my feet press against the shutters

holding back the dark as I read

Billy-Ray Belcourt

watching the words pour into me;

ink blots,


I could make a fence around breath and laughter and

meaningless joy and routine sadness

here it is, sketched with broken

pencil smudged by the palm of my hand

but would you see it?

I drop the vase before it’s wrapped in cellophane and

there’s no such thing as kintsugi for a poem or

if there was all the meaning already spilled into

the carpet i keep my feet off

This article is a part of The Ubyssey's 2023 language supplement, In Other Words.