Two Poems by Amanda Deo



We get drunk on St. Paddy’s day. My brother talks about the time he got into a fight with dad after a hockey game and punched the windshield of our ’94 Escort. And when they came home they had their story straight; it was our dog’s fault & the dog may have a broken skull & take him to the vet.

Then we watch him leave the bar with his new wife & new kids & new car. We get our story straight before we go home.




And then you left for the West. You told me the tar sands don’t wait for anyone and especially not the father of two little kids. I knew you were made of panic and broken sleep and laid off.

When you called me from a new number you shook like burning coal and you cracked tired and aching. There was a smoke ring around your guilt so big an Inuit curled up and slept inside. A nightlight grasped our loneliness.

We were spoiled and whispering and we were grateful for it.




Amanda Deo is the fiddler on your roof. She hunts and kills for broken hearts. She always lives in Toronto. She has had work in Word Riot, 1/25, Ditch, Short, Fast and Deadly, em:me, Gobbet, The Toucan, Right Hang Pointing, Clutching at Straws, Sententia, Soundless, Negative Suck, Sparkbright, and Black Words on White Paper.


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