Poetry Shortlist
RUNNERS UP
JO MILLS
SHAY FERGUSON
ZOMBIE GIRL
by Jo Mills
CW: Body Horror, Gore
bogged down, rosehips
and their million spikes
rise from soft-cushioned earth,
moss and deer scat
make carpets on wet soil.
no one bothers to trek
down goat trails so
treacherous.
it’s the perfect place
to hide a body,
and their million spikes
rise from soft-cushioned earth,
moss and deer scat
make carpets on wet soil.
no one bothers to trek
down goat trails so
treacherous.
it’s the perfect place
to hide a body,
but you didn’t dig
deep enough
deep enough
when the land flooded
my body unearthed.
i crawled out of the grave,
turned murky pond.
i am a girl embracing
second chances.
my body unearthed.
i crawled out of the grave,
turned murky pond.
i am a girl embracing
second chances.
i picture the men’s swollen faces.
my face is blue, now. hollow.
fingernails crumble off in flakes.
dress torn, brown, and bloody.
i used to hold my belly close,
before it was split. now, it hangs
like a cracked trapdoor to nowhere.
i don’t know what i am anymore,
but i’m walking on my feet again.
soles slosh like bags of milk
over my peek-a-boo bones.
my face is blue, now. hollow.
fingernails crumble off in flakes.
dress torn, brown, and bloody.
i used to hold my belly close,
before it was split. now, it hangs
like a cracked trapdoor to nowhere.
i don’t know what i am anymore,
but i’m walking on my feet again.
soles slosh like bags of milk
over my peek-a-boo bones.
i hate the cowards who stab a girl in the gut,
and the freaks who lure a girl off path,
but at least they left the knife.
and the freaks who lure a girl off path,
but at least they left the knife.
at least the men won’t see
how i’m hunting for them
under the sleek cover of night.
sneaking into their homes,
slipping their blade between their ribs.
at least i have eyes to see them
wake, scream, and wish
they hadn’t mutilated me.
how i’m hunting for them
under the sleek cover of night.
sneaking into their homes,
slipping their blade between their ribs.
at least i have eyes to see them
wake, scream, and wish
they hadn’t mutilated me.
someone will find their bodies
stale, ripped, and covered
in mud.
stale, ripped, and covered
in mud.
they won’t find me,
only remnants.
only remnants.
Jo Mills is a poet, songwriter, and visual artist. In her work, she loves to write about the everyday but combines it with whimsical and moody atmospheres to create poems like waking dreams. She lives just outside of Victoria in unceded W̱SÁNEĆ territory, and she is currently in her third year of creative writing at UVic.
POST-MORTEM
by Shay Ferguson
CW: Body Horror
Her family’s tongue curls round a dead girl
trying to taste her name. She went away. I came back
in her place. I pull her skin tight around me
stitching up the rips as they appear.
Her skin lies raw along my limbs, my shoulders,
my chest: the places I’ve sliced myself away,
desperate to fit inside this rotting crucible.
The eyes in her skull are mine now,
and her family won’t meet them.
I do not fit.
The girl is dead. I loved her.
It is my turn to live.
trying to taste her name. She went away. I came back
in her place. I pull her skin tight around me
stitching up the rips as they appear.
Her skin lies raw along my limbs, my shoulders,
my chest: the places I’ve sliced myself away,
desperate to fit inside this rotting crucible.
The eyes in her skull are mine now,
and her family won’t meet them.
I do not fit.
The girl is dead. I loved her.
It is my turn to live.
Shay Ferguson is a queer transmasculine writer. They are from Rocky View County in Alberta, and his work often focuses on queer identity and experiences.
BALTHAZAR
by Bennett Gilleland
CW: Addiction
I gave the plastered avarice inside me
the evilest-sounding name.
the evilest-sounding name.
A counsellor told me to.
They also said to move him
from the top of my head
to the bottom of my foot.
They also said to move him
from the top of my head
to the bottom of my foot.
I opened the latch
to the hatch of my skull.
to the hatch of my skull.
Inside there was a control panel –
switches, levers, buttons –
and the chair he sat in.
The one he slouched in.
The one he struggled to stay in,
but stayed in regardless.
switches, levers, buttons –
and the chair he sat in.
The one he slouched in.
The one he struggled to stay in,
but stayed in regardless.
Greasy hair,
five o’clock shadow,
sleeve buttons undone,
shoes untied,
fly down,
eyes straining to stay open.
five o’clock shadow,
sleeve buttons undone,
shoes untied,
fly down,
eyes straining to stay open.
I was his vehicle,
and he was a drunk driver.
and he was a drunk driver.
He didn’t know
what he switched or pulled
or toggled or twisted.
He just switched and
pulled
and toggled and twisted.
what he switched or pulled
or toggled or twisted.
He just switched and
pulled
and toggled and twisted.
I could smell beer from his breath,
and I tried to pick off all the
dried vomit that he got on the console.
and I tried to pick off all the
dried vomit that he got on the console.
He had been there for years,
gradually promoting himself.
gradually promoting himself.
He was docile, and it made me calm
until I knew immobility wouldn’t take me far.
Yet, the second I tried to pick him up
until I knew immobility wouldn’t take me far.
Yet, the second I tried to pick him up
(like some feral animal)
he snarled, and spat, and swore,
before he grew too tired to fight.
he snarled, and spat, and swore,
before he grew too tired to fight.
He remembered who paid for the damages.
I moved him from the top of my head
to the bottom of my foot.
to the bottom of my foot.
I wanted him to be a piece of gum.
One that stuck when I stepped,
but never made me fall.
One that stuck when I stepped,
but never made me fall.
Bennett Gilleland is a queer, Canadian poet, spoken word performer, and essayist from Toronto, Ontario. He has been published in Sheepshead Review Anthology, Island Writer Magazine, The Martlet, The Warren, Sundew, and This Side of West, in addition to a debut chapbook “Poems to Keep in Your Backpack”. He is pursuing a BA in Writing and English at the University of Victoria.