Yesterday, I felt what it is to feel old. Wrinkling in the shade of the maple
with open arms,
shadows of boys entered my vision.
The head of a woman is filled with dirty roots
of possibilities.
A rotten fig tree falls at once.
The straw-hatted poet buys one cider per sale to monitor his usage, he’ll kiss the
keeper with tongue
at five.
“Public consciousness is growing fascist fast,” declared with brazen brutality, they converse over
wine dinners in their heads.
The moon loiters in the alley, bright and cold as clay.
I’m up with catfights under the ivy
stretching across my window. It pleads gracefully for entry and
grows
closer and closer
until it obscures my view entirely.
Sophie Gallaher is an Honours English Literature student at McGill University. While born in Montréal, Sophie grew up in the United Kingdom. Currently, in her final year of undergrad, she is writing her honours thesis on W.B. Yeats, mysticism, symbolism, and Kabbalah. In her free time, she enjoys writing poetry, watching trashy reality TV, and thinking about the lifecycle of snails. She hopes to have more time to work on her poetry and prose after graduation.