To you who stole my bicycle

We used to tackle Knox Mountain together, me 
and Knoxy, the trails criss-crossed like scattered 
spokes, Lake Okanagan flaring 
around each hairpin, each blind turn, blinking 
between the scrub-trees, bright 
as titanium rims. My Knoxy 

was a humble Trek Marlin, but fine 
fine fine to me. I stabled her in my living 
room and never went to bed without patting 
her handlebars goodnight. She carried me 
sweating and elated to the library, swimming 

pool, the scrabble-trails of Rose Valley 
before they burned. Knoxy was marigold
red, the color of the Okanagan 
on fire. She bounded sure-wheeled
over boulders, bracken, down inclines 
steep as stairs. But here’s the thing – it wasn’t 
the fires that got her. It was you.

An August Sunday, I glided 
downhill to the pool, locked 
my Knoxy safe to the bike racks, snug 
among the Schwinns and Huffys, all 
wagging their fenders, catching 
each other up on the gossip.

I remember the smoke that day, thick
as rubber mesh. Across the lake, 
Rose Valley candled in the wind. 
The crown of Knox Mountain dissolved. 
At the end of my swim, only a Knoxy-shaped 
gap remained at the racks.

My helmet quivered on the asphalt
like a severed skull, or an eggshell kicked 
from the nest. The other bikes cowered
as I gathered the remains, the lock
clean-severed like a vertebrae
when you land a jump dead-wrong.

What can I say to you – you 
who stole my Knoxy? I want 
to tell you to clean her chain, lick 
each link until your tongue 
gums black. I want her gears 
to crush your knuckles if you ever

 – I mean ever – 

frame her as a getaway 
accomplice on your next
dumb heist. You better
ride her heroically or bring 
her home, you fuck.

 

 
                    Why I covet the color magenta

Because fireweed is a voyeur, 
flocking to the site of a blaze. 
Magellan’s armada was the first to claw
its way around the globe – magnificent!

Magenta is an extra-spectral color, 
not derived from visible light. 
Extra-special, extra-terrestrial. 
Magellanic Clouds turned out to be galaxies, 

gyroscoping out of grasp. 
Magellan’s crew died of scurvy 
and hallucinations – spectres, spooks, 
tug-of-war with tortoises. 

Ladies of the night wield magenta parasols, 
garters, all those trappings of want. 
I covet the color magenta 
because of arterial maps, oddly faded. 

Because of charts and magnetism, 
chalk drawings, compasses, 
the all-encompassing gravity of space. 
Placentas, placebos, and magic.

Magenta is the patron saint of escapism,
the magenta sky orchid a symbol of wealth 
and admiration. Magenta neckties 
stand out in a crowd. Magenta lipstick 

is only for special occasions – a trip
to the planetarium or a certain rendezvous.
I crave Crayola markers, cartoon dragons, 
flying saucers. All the conspiracies of childhood.

Magellan himself was speared to death 
half-way home. The Jovian gas giant Gliese 504b
shows up as magenta in the radio images.
I want to bounce it like a rubber ball. 

If I could choose a color for my breath, 
I’d choose magenta. 
If the Magellanic Clouds could rain, 
we’d all go up in star-fire – marvelous!