Emma Rhodes is a queer writer currently living and working in Tkaronto. She is the author of the chapbook Razor Burn (Anstruther Press). Her work has been published in Contemporary Verse 2, ARC Poetry, Prism International, Plenitude, and elsewhere. Her debut full-length collection of poetry, Excavate a Doppelgänger, is forthcoming with Palimpsest Press. She works as a literary publicist, and is the Co-Editor in Chief of The Miramichi Reader.
“‘Anything Buried’ uses lines from Annick MacAskill’s ‘Dryope’ (from Shadow Blight, 2022). Both my poem and ‘Dryope’ examine intergenerational trauma with regards to motherhood and relationships between a mother and her child, as well as the impulse to turn trauma into art. This poem was written while at Jampolis Cottage writing retreat with my writing group, the Egg Poets. I picked up MacAskill’s Shadow Blight from the small artist’s library. It was nice to read and create something inspired by a poem from a collection that MacAskill herself would have left at the cottage when she was there.”
“‘Pointillism feat. Avril Lavigne’ is after Kayla Czaga’s ‘Macrame feat. Stevie Nicks’ (from Midway, 2024). My poem borrows its form and some lines from Czaga’s poem. Both poems look at what we inherit from our mothers, through art and music.”
“The best part about becoming a story
is the permanence
but as she ceases to be heard
so she’ll cease to be—O how beautiful
the poets make our catastrophes—”
— Annick MacAskill
Almost mother, my mother
tattooed those birth and death dates
on the back of her neck, hoping,
naïvely, that the police will reopen the case
upon her own death.
Immortalized, or whatever
you want to call it.
The best part of becoming a story
is the permanence. My mother
knew her only as a phantom
behind film in a photograph. She must
have had a life. 30 years,
according to The Daily Colonist.
She was here, once,
but she ceases
to be heard. My mother
yells into the Alexa: Play Avril Lavigne
fucksakes! Complicated, this time,
being able to ask for something. I fear
when she stops wanting,
she’ll cease to be. O how beautiful,
my mother collects plants and keeps
natural remedies, yarrow root.
Anything in soil is nourishing.
I believe this wholeheartedly, anything buried
is—was—healthy, good for you
to dig up and eat. The poets
make our catastrophes—
Hanging on finishing nails on the walls of all our houses,
even the attic, are pointillism drawings
from mum’s previous life. Two lovers
in the woods. The moon an absence of particle at the top of the page
just above their crowded shadows. An angel
hugging her tucked-in knees, shy about something.
And a snow leopard wrapped snug and
peeking out of itself. She tried selling some pieces
but never found much success, if money
is a measure of success. This afternoon, she’s toasting almonds
for granola and Avril Lavigne plays on the speaker. The kitchen
is full of dot drawings of plants from her garden.
And would you believe me if I told you she drew Avril Lavigne,
too? Overflowing with a youth she still
doesn’t know what to do with. Would you understand
what I’m trying to mean? If I tell you my mum
drew me, too. She saw a grey photo of her mother
in the newspaper, a loss she didn’t know printed there
to run her fingers over. And so she dotted me out
until the sunflower seeds in the granola, the spattered oil
decorating the back of the stove, and the dust
that jumps from the tea towel every time she dries her hands
settle on the page into something almost
like what I envision someone else might mistake me for.
Grey, but true. Avril Lavigne is on the radio
suggesting we talk this over.
It’s not like we’re dead.
