Hockey players in white uniforms blood on their hands and skates on their feet
Wobble through the ward grand central keeping their eyes on the tiles
They all use up their  “Get out off Jail Free” card Weinstein in prison
thinking wobbles too, what are they doing here on the way to the ice

Their sentences are suspensions in two meanings of the word
for one they don’t play hockey on any team for a full year
but all criminal charges suspended, remaining unsentenced
in exchange for a walk through this hospital in Kelowna

Say Ah. I choke on the stick a light checks my cavities
there is no sentence long enough to remit my memories
here I just see 17 players not all from one team,
their shaven heads photographed with a flash

Each called to step forward to a podium before they leave
Read their confessions and take responsibility for the pain
they’ve caused then ask for forgiveness.  Abject players
leave the ward, congregate in front of the elevators
waiting for their agents to escort them to another circle of hell. 



My difference roots around behind my eyes
what I see and you don’t is your loss with a sniff
the mattress across the hall opens like I imagine
clamshell opens with a touch of the sea and choreogrphy
contemporary to me but unleashes your contempt  unfurling
your curling lip, sharp tongue and snapping teeth spit
out  all between “she’s no artist,  she’s a nurse
like the rest of us, carrying your shit packed in a  bed pan.”

Yeah, I figure,  I won’t look back  just dream and fly right.



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