The Sonnet is Dead

By Joanna Cleary

The sonnet is dead; we’ve talked it to death.
Love is complicated, political.
And what could be more complicated than
a sonnet? They are always ironic,
my professor said sternly to the class.
Always. The idea is ironized
in the sestet. I was still half-asleep,
retracing my pen over the octave,
thinking that it first could have been written
on a day as rain-splattered as today,
and the poet could have walked home slowly
with both feet wet from stepping in puddles
as sunlight appeared in the sky again
to touch water drops shining on cobwebs. 

---

Perfect Pie

By Joanna Cleary

I burned the pie
and its black
settled thickly
in the hollow of my throat
like a necklace.
You ate and ate
and ate and ate
and wanted more.
I tried again, sick
of flour and sugar,
but the crust was
golden brown
the second time
and eating became
a godless communion:
you ate until you
couldn't breathe
and then laughed.

There were three red little lines
thinking their way
across your right arm.
I would like some
more, please, you
said. Please sir,
may I have some more?
Please, sir. You'd
almost failed Gr. 12
English, and it was all
so funny to somebody
like you. Your secret
was that you liked
to say please
over and over again

and you thought
nobody could tell.

After you left town
and I stayed

the air when I baked
smelled like you

for years


only stopping
when I forgot
if your three lines
had started to heal
the last time I saw you
or if they had stayed

behind.

---

Lecture Notes on ​Frankenstein

By Joanna Cleary

          The lovely moon saw a figure approaching in the distance

​He was not God  

but the rain reminded him
of God
and the round O
of God's wholeness

He was forgiven until he was made                                            
palpable and thumb
printed
like touch without touch

[He was clean
and he did
what he wanted]

He asked how to shatter
his waterlogged muscles

[He ached for no reason and it hurt]

​The O of his body opened and closed
as the wounds he had unchosen
drank greedily from his veins 
until they were soft and spongy
          and gasping for breath
His blood looked at the sky of his skin 

He was not a little world made cunningly

                              He was not an image

The night was warm and trivial
 
                    The night lasted and lasted
like a mirror  

[He could talk about himself
for hours]

Morning hung itself on his chest
wishing he would name
               the round syllables of his bones

[On the ground, he understood]

The rain did not stop
so he stood and walked down the mountain
towards a tense he thought
would hide his secrets

               God is a water-shed reflection
 
The heart made of sunlight cannot be held 
  
                              Creature tries (and fails) to learn birdsong

---

There's a Stop Sign

By Joanna Cleary

I am almost hit by a car early this morning
When I bike to the library. My body shudders
And sings its throat-song as I continue to live
Unhurt. There’s a stop sign, the driver bellows
In his deep and lonely voice. Fucking idiot. 
I never see his face. Inside, I search slowly
Through stacks of books for the want we share.
When I bike home, balancing the weight
Of hardcovers between my handlebars,
My lungs hurt carefully as I cycle up the hill
And into my backyard. I say hello to my parents
And my brothers. Inside, I begin to read
Because there is nothing left to say. 

---

Joanna Cleary is an undergraduate student double majoring in English Literature and Theatre and Performance at the University of Waterloo. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Cicada Magazine, The HIV Here and Now Project, and Subterranean Blue Poetry, among others. She is also currently a Poetry Editor for Inklette Magazine.