Sharalyn Barg lives in Vancouver and studies creative writing at the University of British Columbia. Her recent work is published in Bending Genres, Yin Literary, Beyond Words, and Big Whoopie Deal.
The heel of my hand is a blue smudge
I haunt my papers with – inkstamps
from yesterday. You know all exams
are cumulative if you recoil
far enough. Every word I ever wrote
presses into this sentence. Accreting
stacks of evidence on the bedside
table spin me nightspiels. What I
might have loosed with you instead
of sitting mute in the cinema back
row letting lines amass in my
archive grip. Maybe I’ll enunciate
next time or else keep mapping ways
to wash my hands of stubborn inkstain
read more
Storytime in
the beaming den, mossy afghan
cross our laps
He wears glasses slid
low down his nose
I wear peony pink and
grass stains. Narrate
a scene I know by heart. Buffalo Bill
is my grandpa’s secret
name, I think I see
picture book bandits
in the cliffs of his face
We end with
an oversize bag of Kerr’s caramels
before he takes his leave
I eat them in bed and
assemble tiny monuments
from the spent wrappers
a scene I know by heart