Christina McNish

Insomnia or day-sleep is a gallstone
bladder for poets. It returns to
you hints and states of postcards of
childhood sickness. Ages one

to five: I lived on the peak of
Lake Ontario's hips. How I
hate Toronto: images
of my bone rack apathetic self are
produced in the city's curves like
a seductive girl.

Do
I look that hard? Do I look that hollow?
I don't drink tea at five
or four. I want friends that care for
me. I want friends that I can manipulate
emotionally, like my life.

I fell asleep at seven. Etobicoke
mouths its sunlight like a faucet into
the lake at eleven. I woke up to see
my reflection in a moon girl's face. I'm
an adult again. I've missed the ducks in
the sand, the apple dawn of a baby's cheek,
the sky as my father's open eye. My mom used to let
me sit in the bath with her. My

stomach is so hollow. I can feel a stone
growing inside like a child. My moon's missing:
it's up in the night.

Christina McNish is an amateur poet that is currently studying Popular Culture at Brock University. She is especially interested in Canadian communications, as well as English-French issues in the country.