by Margaret Avison

A plague of locusts is
a reminder that the
focus on knees and thighs
in stringy and gangling
insects can inspire invidious
comparisons.
Nimble in
chain-armour (below) with an
upsidedown carapace (shellacked)
these tiny
obstreporousnesses model
adoptable fashion trends.
The elderly, too,
are scant in underpinnings,
and
angular. But,
unlike the locusts, these
swarm very seldom. Each may
go with a stick; a plague, perhaps first to
themselves. Yet, their
undemanding pleasure in the
world out under such a
mysterious (some days dazzling) sky
may be a to-be desired
infection.

Margaret Avison was born in Galt, Ontario. After graduating from the University of Toronto, in order to free up evenings for her writing, she worked by day as an editor, office clerk, ghost writer, lecturer, translator and mission worker. She holds two Governor General’s Awards, three honorary doctorates and an Order of Canada, as well as having received a Griffin Prize. Her first six volumes of poetry were collected as Always Now (2003), and a seventh, Momentary Dark, appeared in 2006.