Ken Cathers has a B.A. from the University of Victoria and an M.A. from York University in Toronto. He has been published in numerous periodicals, anthologies as well as seven books of poetry, most recently Letters From the Old Country with Ekstasis Press.
He lives on Vancouver Island with his family in a small colony of trees.
why did you think he could save you poets are not known for kindness bravery risk only words betray themselves for an image a line like sharpened glass you were drowning alone and he was far away writing an ocean composing the sky
she is planting the dead birds in the back garden imagines delicate plumed stems sprout in moist soil. there is a place below where bones reknit, grow flesh become the small buds of unhatched warblers. it is a cosmology made up, a child’s mystery emblazed with wonder. I can hear them singing in the dirt she says. tomorrow we will dig them up paint the lifeless sky with feathers
one never wins an argument with the dead. they never change forgive, grow into anything better. are too busy becoming stone, water, some undiscovered element. they are cunning the dead, forget things, invoke a vague borealis of doubt, are full of lies, betray every whisper, every trust. are always right. reveal nothing. they are a silence that never listens a town abandoned windows broken doors ajar. one never wins with the dead. they never quite leave feast on shadow. keep their secrets forever.