Fathom 2003



Inside Cover




Patrick Pearce (2)
Eva Holland (4)
Julie MacManus (2)
Michelle Damour
Myka Tucker Abramsonmn (2)
Jordan Penney
Brad MacDonald
Kate Buttery (3)
Nikiki Martain
Bethany Jost
Joshua Cotton
Jasmine Somers
Chantelle Rip



Morgan Dambergs
David Bain


Myka Tucker Abramsonm



For my Mother

We six stand in the door way,
smells scattered like responsibilities:
mixing mould and memories.
We divide rooms, bags and boxes:
salvation army, food bank and garbage.
In the living room,
we pour over pictures,
fingers sliding over worn edges
yellowed by time and shoeboxes.
“Growing up was craziness”
You offer this as rebellions’ explanations:
anti-Semitism, pork dinners
at Christmas, Palestine over Passover.
The piles grow by lunch time
and we sit among them
eating one of the eight jars of herring
on bread we find frozen in the freezer.
She collected everything: bins of buttons,
threads, soap scraps and paper bits.
Clothing broke down like language”;
shirts transformed into fibers,
Cut into square shaped shmatas
and secreted beneath the bed.
There is no order to these breakdowns:
boxes of photos mix portraits and corpses,
skeletal piles and ceremonies,
my parents’ sepia wedding
smells vaguely of burnt flesh.
When my grandfather dies, she stops
cleaning. Morning trips for food and mops
build up in forgotten cupboards and closets
and by the time evening comes we collect
fourteen boxes of raisin bran and seven bottles
of Life-brand cleaner.
You sweep the contents of the freezer,
fridge, cupboard into
extra large black garbage bags
refusing to check for recyclables.
I rebel in my own way,
collecting Anne Frank memorabilia
and Steffi Graff biographies,
but terror is hereditary
and I am thirteen before I can fall asleep
without the fear of black boots
and I am left with legacy
that in every room: I measure
the closets against my own
seeking a place to hide.


empty rooms and hallways

stuffed with boxes
of cookie tins and years
the smooth clean wood of floors
smears against the walls
washed white and patchy
where fingernails picked
bits of tape and imprints
and i wrap my arms around
you on the floor i spread my legs

against the corner

you on the floor i spread my legs
and i wrap my arms around
bits of tape and imprints
where fingernails picked the
washed white and patchy
smears against the walls
the smooth clean of floors
of cookie tins and years
stuffed with boxes
empty rooms and hallways


last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul