My Uncle Malcolm

My uncle Malcolm is eighty-one years old. He lives in a nice house in a nice suburb of Toronto with a nice backyard and a nice dog and a nice wife. He’s from where I’m from, and — like me — he landed in Toronto in his early twenties. We have a lot of things … Continue reading My Uncle Malcolm


Lungs crackle with ice And hot coffee slides Down muffled throats   Smoke swirls from cigarettes And shivering hands Seek solace in pockets   Battered boots beat Solemn streets Under cold wind Crushing down   Legs and lips Burn whisky-warm As fierce fire gives way To an incandescent ache   Exposed ears And naked noses … Continue reading Winter

In the Corners of a Backpack

The road to North Bay is paved with trees. Lots of trees.

In early September last year, I squeezed my life into a suitcase, dragged it to Glasgow International Airport and boarded a plane to Toronto. Now, I’ve been in Canada for over five months and I still feel like I did the first day I stepped off of the plane and into a new home, a … Continue reading In the Corners of a Backpack