Kinda Wannamaker

By Ava Ugolini

Wanamaker was their last name.
And in their house was furniture
which brandished it too.
They never made any
unless you count carpet installation.
Wannamaker.
 
Frankly her mole scared me
moving up and down with her jaw in anger.
When they renovated that new house
I traced a scar in the caravan and
took turns too tight on their quads.
We built a lazy treehouse
from the extra wood.
Staley hammered.
 
Beaver Narrows; woodland; kicked-up sawdust.
Linoleum floors taken from scraps
and grown out auburn horse-felt buzzcuts.
Foodland; Pigeon Lake; new paint still stunk.
Not yet understanding leeches
​like out of date beets.
I’ll play on Microsoft Paint
while you put sugar in the Ski-Doo tank.

---

White noise crosswalk signal

By Ava Ugolini

I
look into a round ceiling light up against
a wood wall at a cafe.
I
clasp my hands
like a pseudo-prayer
but it’s accidental.
I
defend and
I
yell back and
I
balance both palms on my knees when
I
am in my room alone.
 
I
listen to the 5th
ambulance of the eve.
I
pretend it is a song created for me in my bed
one warm body-shaped space
the rest so cold
I
wake up
roving
in the night.

A man at the bus stop lies down.

I
use stray butt pieces of bread
​from the freezer.

---

​Ava Ugolini is on the road.