Any Persistent Creator
Speak of loud objects,
words filled with fluid that
slosh about the bladder
of a pregnant brain.
Dare to not put something back
where you found it, desperate to
make some kind of change,
some kind of vain art.
Unsatisfied, surrounded by treasure,
pick apart the skin, expecting to
discover an ugly truth, a rot you can
write about. You need money.
Nothing of value lies between strangers’ legs
or in the foam of ale, but sweat on, kick rocks over,
be ready to show people your pages, ones written
in the fading light of your inspiration
A small nod, or a raised eyebrow, is all you need
to grasp onto like someone is killing you—
a ride up to the penthouse,
or down to executive parking.
Your name in print, or in lights,
you have no preference.
I’d closed my eyes
during the lessons so I
never got to ask why it is
we are sucked down
the instant we pack our things
and try to leave
why it keeps its objects orbiting
in an ellipse of immobility and
whatever evidence is relevant at the time.
It is my universe’s most
It’s an invisible
pull from the outside,
yet its effects are seen clearly
in the swarm
of police cars on a shut-down bridge
where men in neon jackets search for
a bobbing head in the water.
Death of the First World
A sun fans out
and straps in
soft red bath sustained by
the cycle of an unseen deity,
through magical equipment:
occupied by all
Limit is reached upon
a timely collapse, a
draining of familiar waters
when pulled into the
most diverse of afterlives,
Terese Mason Pierre is a Canadian student pursuing a graduate degree in Philosophy. She has previously published poetry, short fiction and an electronic novel. She aims to become a medical doctor. Pierre lives in Toronto with her family and cat, Benjamin. Visit her website: www.teresemason.webs.com, or follow her on Instagram and Twitter: @teresempierre.