July 17, 2020

I dreamt I followed C to an artists’ colony but he’d already got on the subway at Spadina and was gone. I brushed my teeth with charcoal and my fake tooth became spongy and fell out along with some of my gums. I looked in the mirror and thought I looked really nice.

I dreamt we were in Repo Man, except the only part like Repo Man was the colours. A sinkhole grew bigger and bigger. Cars drove into it. I stopped a truck driver from falling to his doom by putting caution tape around it. He was peeved.

I dreamt a dream within a dream. I took a shower and laid down and woke up realizing I’d dreamt taking a shower and woke up realizing I’d dreamt that too.

I dreamt biking up a hill I finally did a wheelie.

I dreamt A and I stole a parking sign and pole with the aim of folding it up and dropping it from a slide in front of many children.

I dreamt I was in a meeting where statuettes of icecream people like in drive-in snack bar ads were handed around. I remembered admiring them before the meeting. I wanted a melting one which I received with great joy. Later, N offered me a plate of cut eggs. I declined.

I dreamt my alarm was going off, which it was.

I dreamt C was in my room. I was happy to see him but didn’t want him in my house. My dad came up to give him a guitar concert. I was wearing a nightgown and felt uncomfortable.

I dreamt AB and I shared a bed out of necessity. It was too warm.

I dreamt SG made us walk up and down stairs repeatedly.

I dreamt A had a fish tank. We filled it with soap. We lost the fish. Friends told us we had to see what was outside: a line of people holding pigs, some grey. Carnivorous animals rushed at the pigs and devoured them violently. I left as they were singing a national anthem.

I dreamt my boss was very unhappy with my work and mocked my efforts with great enthusiasm. Her office was in a basement and was coated in flour and plaster dust.

I dreamt my phone had a very thin film on it. I removed it with my nails.

I dreamt I was in the basement. The carpet was grey like when I was a kid. J was there. I tried to ignore him. I had a guitar lesson with R where I couldn’t play very well. Afterwards, many children showered him with gifts.


Aisha bo bisha bonana fana fo fisha mi my mo misha aisha.

July 27, 2020

They’re looking for the poem of the year.
I haven’t been doing anything important,
living on this island since August;
it’s shaped like a hallabong you’d find at the bottom
of the reject bin (hallabongs are plentiful here,
big round citrus fruits like oranges)
from bird’s eye view. Staring at it straight on
the island is a protruding nipple out of the great ocean,
solidifying its promise: the land of rocks, wind, and women.
I came here hounding love
and found plenty to fit the bill, but none who would.
I’ve been getting over myself
for the past ten months, and they’re looking
for the best damn poem of the year.
On weekends I ride my motorbike to the harbour
or the temple, I meditate, which is important
to me and to no one else;
I spend time with friends who nobody knows
but who I love, who are good;
I go to work each day to a classroom
bright with children who bounce and clutch my hands
when I ask for high fives, and nobody knows them
either, save for a few teachers, a few parents
on this tiny oval island
but they say children are the future.
Everyday I am alive on the slopes of this mountain,
this town slanting into the sea,
running straight into obscurity.
But the people power uphill, driving carts full of fruit
full of livelihood, kids hanging onto bumpers,
and I am foreign and my place is vague
but I try; I am here trying
to help children grow up without losing anything
to keep them from rolling into the ocean
to keep myself from tumbling into the drink too…
could it be that no one is ever doing anything
more important than anyone else?
In this country I live in, the leader has met
with fierce opposition, desperately smiling
for peace. In other countries, people decide
whether wars should be fought,
how many dues we have to pay, what it is
we are not allowed to do —
deciding all the time for everyone but themselves,
that’s what power lets them do.
But I am doing something without much power.
I am doing something that is not deciding, that is not making moves.
We, all of us on this island, are present
in moments as they wash by, lap at our shore,
fruit as it is peeled, hands
as they are clapped,
lips as they are licked, smiles as they shine,
words as they are spoken
between lovers, friends, shop owners and customers,
and none of us have to prove any of it
or sign it away, or make a big deal of it,
or decide if it is good or bad, or important.
We’ve been here for a while now.
Being here is the greatest thing you can do,
even if it doesn’t make the poem of the year.


Jordan Weir is a nonbinary poet and writer, completing an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Toronto.