Carpool
The streets were eternal back thenback when back seat was a canopy of armsstretched out like the solsticethe thump of tire on chewed cementjolting the deviance from feeble bodiesMomma was no pilot, bu... Read more
Time Machine
A time travel machine. It might sound futuristic, something science fiction writers spend pages and pages imagining. In fact, I have seen one. I will try to describe it for you, in case you have seen ... Read more
Moose
From the fourteenth floor, you can see how much has changed down at King and Victoria. The skyline is filled with condos. But also, along the plateau of the train tracks: a patch of hill, a shopping c... Read more
Duality
“Where are you from?” Usually, people don’t believe that I’m Jamaican, on account of me not having an accent, not speaking patwa—and also not being Black. They don’t generally have a probl... Read more
Grieving a Stranger
My parents came to Canada as refugees in the late ’80s for better opportunities and to escape Ethiopia’s hellish dictatorship. Though I cannot know the extent of their struggles, I can speak of th... Read more
Treatment
It’s six am, I didn’t sleep, I got a dozen phone calls on my cell. She’s ready for treatment. “I’ll meet you at eight,” she said. So I made the phone calls. I fo... Read more
The Boat
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True Blue
Elvis isn’t dead. He lives in Kitchener, Ontario, on a bench outside the grocery store. “One for the money!” I’m always tempted to say, as I dump a pathetic amount of change into his blistery ... Read more
Cerasee
“Dawn! Come put on yuh shoes!” Dawn’s mother exclaimed from the kitchen, a small room at the back of the house where a portable kerosene stove and a tall eggshell white fridge fed the family of ... Read more
The Tower
Looking down to the ground below, wind whips around my body. The gravity allures me, asking me to take the step forward, asking me to throw it all away. I am reassured; my heart gives way to apathy. T... Read more
Three Poems
Untitledmy mother is a pile of dust between two bricks unable to be condensed to a finer powder she sleeps in her ashtray next to the cigarettes that numb her I walk through the door just make a good ... Read more
Skin
Textile · Yvonne Tagoe - SkinMy skin is a beautiful gift not a sin But in this foreign land They don’t understand that my skin is my pride and joy In this foreign land far from home my skin is a so... Read more
Grieving a Stranger (Digital Storytelling Workshop)
My parents came to Canada as refugees in the late ’80s for better opportunities and to escape Ethiopia’s dictatorship. Though I cannot know the extent of their struggles, I can speak of their consequences... Read more