Deeply hidden in her head,
spokes of a static wheel
blossomed behind her eyes like black wax
night after starry night.
In the mornings,
unending sunlight spilled like slippery songs
on leaves as large as hands.
She thought those hands would hold her if she spoke.
The notes turned to white wine
sudden and silent and voluptuous.
She had an urgent need to chronicle and compare
blue and plankton, radiance and polar bears.
P.K. had only to pick up her pen,
and she would try to restore riggings and veins.
Female whimsy floated like a kind of tulle
while her feet in gunboots paced in rectangles.
This gave her godsview.
She shone like the sun
in heavenbefore she died.
I.B. Iskov: Founder of The Ontario Poetry Society.