Guest Poem by Julie Cameron Gray

Julie Cameron Gray is originally from Sudbury, Canada (Atikameksheng Anishnawbek territory). She is the author of two poetry collections - Lady Crawford (Palimpsest Press), Tangle (Tightrope Books), and is nearing the completion of her 3rd poetry manuscript. She has previously published in Vallum, Ex-Puritan, The Moth (IE), Magma (UK), The Fiddlehead, EVENT, Prairie Fire, Carousel, and Best Canadian Poetry. Lady Crawford was shortlisted for the Pat Lowther Award.

Grocery Store Tulips

Bought on a whim, pale petals shut
like seashells slow to open, waiting to soak
in the weak light that streaks through the window.

My cat unbothered, too old to be curious, the tip
of her tail a calligraphy brush dipped in ink.
I serve her daily meds, a chemical rosary

over her food bowl just to keep her a little more,
to keep her curled like a comma in the crook of my thighs.
Later that week, the vet pulls out a box of tissues

while I stand there crying, still wearing my winter coat,
my favourite sweater. The salt I tracked in from wet pavement
a kind of sand across the floor. The vet’s fingernails shine

like the inner nacre of seashells, like the curve
of the tulip bowing to time on the table back at home,
where my cat will never be again. Grey days later

watching the tulips spend their last days curling
into new shapes, colour darkening, drying
into small husks I sweep into my hand.