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poetry by Jade Wallace


She carved a blue moon over my navel,

scattered dark stars across my ribs.

Working slowly into my skin,

she filled my silence with

words I have only heard in the mouths of lovers.


You take it so well.

I want it to be perfect for you.

It can be overwhelming; tell me if you need me to stop.


Lying by the cool window,

under the light touch of her hands,

the singe of a vanishing needle

did not even feel like pain.


Outside, afterwards, the sun was too much.

I went home and waited for night.

I wanted to climb a ladder of bones

to the moon,

sandpaper the craters of it

into shapes that would please her.


Jade Wallace

Jade Wallace is a writer from the Niagara Fruit Belt, currently working in a legal clinic in Toronto, Ontario. Their poetry, short fiction, and essays have been published internationally, including in Studies in Social Justice, The Dalhousie Review, and The Stockholm Review. Their most recent chapbook is the collaborative Test Centre (ZED Press 2019). They are an organizing member of Draft Reading Series, one half of the writing partnership MA|DE, and a ukuleleist in The Leafy Greens, a band whose music has been incorrectly described as 'psychedelic stoner metal.' 

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