there must be a contour shade on your back
more pained than this: every morning
in our old apartment the washroom door pulls open
toronto winter, a cruel nostalgia.
you join me in the shower. i remember
we began to rush even that.
now your voice on the phone, gliding
like your walk, threatens to leave me
only the middle line of this poem
is a community facilitator, co-founding editor of Locked Horn Press, and the author of
Carving Ashes (CiCAC, 2013). His work appears in the following journals and
anthologies, among others: Cutthroat, Dismantle: An Anthology of Writing
from the VONA/Voices Writing Workshop (Thread Makes Blanket Press, 2014),
Five Quarterly, Kartika Review, and Stay Solid! A Radical Handbook for
Youth (AK Press, 2013).
Hari immigrated to South Vancouver, Coast Salish Territory at the age of 12 and
currently writes in San Diego, Kumeyaay Land.