About the Author

Tracy Hamon

Tracy Hamon was born in Regina, Saskatchewan. She holds an MA in English from the University of Regina. Her first book of poetry This Is Not Eden was released in April 2005 and was a finalist for two Saskatchewan Book Awards. Portions of her latest collection Interruptions in Glass won the 2005 City of Regina Writing Award, and was also shortlisted for two Saskatchewan Book Awards in 2010. Most recently she was long-listed for the 2012 CBC Poetry Award.

Books by this Author
Red Curls

He has yet to speak, fingers in my hair, gathers me in to his chest. My right cheek chafes on his cloak as he tries to keep me in the left palm of this squared space. My knees ache with the strain of staying, so I let go. An index finger uncurls, one arm braced for the worst. He pushes his right hand, polite against my left shoulder, just enough tenderness to move me.
Tobacco-stained fingers, dry from years of paint scratched underneath the surface, catch thin strands in a delicate snare. He told me once he loved the taste of red hair on his lips late in the evening, like the tang of kirsch lingering long after sipping. I brushed those fine curls one hundred strokes every morning.
Maybe the fault is mine for settling. I look down at the jagged pink dress, the bottom frayed from washing, my bare feet callused from months of walking the blunt edge of rumour. They say I'm no better than his whore, the pornographer's muse, yet I weathered tiny rooms, hunger, endless poses, the cold skin of strangers, and the town's insults to be with him. I carried fruit hidden in my slip, suffered his seeded bind in the child gravity pulled from my womb. How he mourned what was unborn, grief a corsage splashed on the front of a dark suit as he stood on the threshold with his new wife. They watched from the doorway as I folded the placenta into an old sheet, tried to bury my devotion in the same grave.
He breathes now in long gasps, a sleepwalker in the fist of a dream, stirs a few stray wisps of hair. I look out the window beside the door, sun's sharpness slicing through the panes. The day grazes off the back of a black lacquered chair, puddles white onto the ground of what continues to connect us, there, just off centre.

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