Finalist in the 2013 U of T Magazine Poetry Contest
I choose a dark green slash of glass
And slide its edge against a red triangle. The edges scrape
Against each other until I sense a click
And they lie snug.
The green glints, a slice of colour mired in memory:
The tree outside the hospital window
That witnessed my grandfather’s death.
I want to blur these harsh edges between green and red
The red the blood of birthing and greeting new life
A joy that trickles with grief:
Beginning to know someone, having known someone,
And knowing the two cannot meet.
A bit of blue, cerulean blue, a tiny square
I fit with the red.
Then a strip of French yellow, mustardy and glowing
A shard of orange
A whispered kiss as I slip them close.
A little kaleidoscope
Circular and prism-‐like, shot with light. The shades
Recalling the sea, sex, love, grief, a myriad
Of images that sussurro along the hidden caverns inside us.
I hold the fitted glass in the cup of my palm
And curl my fingers over it. I will keep it safe
For as long as it takes
For us to meet again.
Listen to a poetry reading of “The Gift” by Safia Kazulin.
Safia Kazulin graduated with a degree in cinema studies and literary studies from Victoria College n 2005.