Susan McMaster Poems

Death is not red
in the cancer ward.
The vibrant red ivy
...

We have no choice but to see our friends
through these last pavanes,
no special claim is needed now
...

Look out from the top
of the Gatineau Hills,
lean over the stone wall
at the Parkway's edge
...

—the pleasure of lusting
after you is to stroke, with my finger
the hollow beside your eye so lightly
...

Afraid she's fallen or had a stroke
when she doesn't answer my knock,
I have the nurse unlock her door,
...

Prayer
for a morning
not yet frayed
...

And with this handful of dozing words
years later, adrift
on Lac Vert, lac reve
where first your rhythms reached me
...

You prepare a feast of bitter bread,
of acid wine and rancid flesh,
then sit me down. Now eat, you hiss,
...

Sitting here in the driver's seat
with still your library card, insurance forms, bills,
underneath the dash, cracked seat
...

When they leave, the lake
sharpens, clears
as if we'd turned the lens
on your father's binoculars,
...