Neon flashes burn in columns stretched beneath a broken night sky-
shop lights and speeding car lights diffuse on the wet road.
Drunk bodies emerge struggling
as they collapse and coalesce into
one another’s shoulders- their
motions as directionless as the lights
that have burned all night-
Some scream about fears and friendships
to an October sky bringing news of winter,
breaking bottles the way broken hearts do-
others stand contemplating mysteries
like the parked cars that never seem to move
from their parallel formations.
Moving along the street,
the windows into the city’s soul-
graffiti, shops, stores, and bars-
incessantly appear and recede.
Many strangers in their time have walked this
walk and looked above, wondering how
the city dangles over us all in alternating
patterns of brightness and space-
like the lights that hang over St. Laurent.
In those half-moist, half-hopeful eyes
glimmered the skies of a hundred other cities
and the stars they would also be watching.
I talk about you on filthy washroom walls, the stall, a wretched confessional, your name
a crudely inked litany on white tile. Words held hostage in my throat, here I can admit
without admitting anything, boots peeking pigeon-toed beneath the door. A lover’s
pseudonym. A lefty has scrawled shut up bitch in harsh ebony and I think about that
word dripping from your tongue, how it tastes like honey on mine, sweet and cloying. I
tell Marie with the pretty penmanship about your hands and my heart and it staining
the linoleum crimson because you thought it would be fun to wring it like a dirty
dishcloth. Tell her you laughed with your teeth bared and your fingertips tinted pink.
Tell her about one hour on a bus to see you because it was raining hard, and you wanted
to be Allie and Noah. Wednesdays pressed burning against the gilded cross on your
chest, trying to play hide-n-seek in your bones. Tell her of the things you don’t
remember and the things I write poetry about. Know that I’d tell you if I thought you’d
You’re the coolest kid on the block,
While you’re out I’m hiding the clock.
You have the universe on your skull,
You’re a planet with a gravitational pull.
You’re a big kid now,
But you still light up the house–
Scootering on your own down the street,
Not yet scared of who you’ll meet
And I wish it could stay this way,
The clock gone, leaves floating mid-sway.
But one day you’ll leave,
You’ll leave and I’ll be bereaved,
You’ll drive your neighbor’s cheap car,
You get motion sick, but you’ll get far.
Breathe through it and focus on the horizon,
And remember you’re not too old to keep that helmet on.
You might have to stop for a while,
Your cheeks might forget how to smile,
Your heart will shatter
And fall with a pitter-patter–
Put the pieces in your pocket and hop on a truck,
Stare out the window at the cows in the muck.
Your eyes glow honey-gold in the sunset,
Your hair’s red and aflame and you let
When you get to town you find a B&B,
The bathroom mirror’s cracked but breakfast’s free.
The oatmeal clumps, coagulates,
Your sadness abates
Because in your breakfast there’s a universe,
Little oat pieces held together never disperse.
Your brain explodes,
But your skull’s intact
And the dust comes back,
Nebulas form and new life begins–
You check your pocket and grin.
Your new heart isn’t new,
The old pieces are all there–save a few.
They’ve been arranged differently,
Refract the light to a greater degree.
Your heart is old and beautiful and new,
And now it’s a clue,
Follow it and you’ll find me.
Charging extra for
the service that you
the last Pompeii
of our waning humanism
without cause because you
arts and humanities work
The soldier’s rage
beats my heart and you
lack requisite capabilities
for comfort and care.
I am not a painting
your traps in the
me in the museum
where tourists fall over,
in the crumbs of bread and
The hungry spectator
forces my hand, and I
My colours bleed, unaccounted
The book at the giftshop
crushes my petty,
unpaid, destitute lips
I would like to go to the shore.
The noises of bustle are fresh
and welcome, within our sidewalks
but putrid when alone. like an
empty dustpan after hours of
squalor, of sudden care.
I would like to go to the shore because
I feel that someone is waiting
for me, they have been waiting
for some time
for fear of misfortune has wrapped me
like a silk scarf, the smooth allure
There is simplicity in the tender roll
of waves, always there
when I think of them
in your head.
I would like to clean the voices there
with my dustpan, and cut my scarf
so you will not see the sidewalks,
and the sand will swallow you whole.
The salt will nourish you: as if a seashell
you will be happy
drifting on the shore.
Letter from the Editors
The McGill Tribune would like to thank all of those who
submitted their beautiful and poignant art pieces to the
Fall 2022 Creative Supplement. The diverse media of
photography, mixed media, illustration, and poetry remind
us of the power of artistic expression to find clarity amid
chaos. We are proud to share this semester’s edition of the
Supplement with the McGill community and hope these
works will inspire reflection, introspection, and awe—just
as they did for our team.
Anoushka Oke, Creative
Edward-Wright, Managing Editor
Mika Drygas and Shireen Aamir, Design Editors Wendy Zhao, Features Editor
Madison McLauchlan, Editor-in-Chief Ghazal Azizi, News Editor
Oliver Warne and Sneha Senthil, Web Developers Anna Chudakov, Multimedia Editor