Down The Hill

I am Evil-

Eye-Level with

Some train station

God.

They loom. (I don’t).

Or I can’t, but

The Blue, at least,

Glares.

Second-To-Last Cart

Here is home to

Living martyrs.

I can’t believe 

It’s not sacrifice! 

Day three: oceans.

Day seven: salt,

For all that wet

In your Genesis¹

I Miss The Stop When

You refuse to

Live in a house 

You did not bleed 

To make into home.

To suffer is 

To have honor,

Is a young shell

For an ancient corpse.

Some Guy Is In My Way

Rotten fish

Does not wait

For Friday

It dies in

Shallow hands

And again

Under blunt,

Sated teeth

And again

With a Name

Barely damp,

Because it

Never rains hard

Enough in this

Stupid fucking

City. 

​

_________________________

 ¹How can you Name

 A man-made lake

 After a fish?

 It cannot live there.

Tvine Donabedian (she/her) is a queer Canadian-Armenian writer from Montreal, currently completing a graduate degree in Vancouver. Her aim is to navigate the vastness of identity through musings on sexuality and diasporic struggle. She has words in Arc Poetry magazine and Graphite publications. Twitter @tvinedonabedian