Fathom 2006



Inside Cover




Wesley Colbath (2)
Colby Gaudet (3)
Ami Harbin
Chrissy King (2)
Jean-Marc Prevost
Sarah Robart
Heather E. Thomson (2)
Johanna Bargman




Melissa Barr
Deanna Foster


Heather E. Thomson



Lady Muse

she sways over
her darkened piano, weaving
the white and ebony keys
into a web of tender music
(which once inspired you
to fall in love with Her)

She strained to keep the melancholic chords
in undertone
beneath the ocean’s swells and tides
but got sucked under
drowned a thousand deaths
as you commented on the beauty of the sea

her frozen fingers now wander defiantly
like planets through ancient constellations
retrograding in ways
you fear
to understand

still, you are here, listening, but half-heartedly.

the chords grow lower
as she spins the story of woman’s sorrow
stamped on her sex from the world’s start

she ripped up the rotten roots

from the garden you once tended with Her
and cast them onto the surrounding asphalt
like adam and eve were cast from the garden
like you cast her
from your heart

casting, deepening her
sorrow – the thing you fear
when even eve had adam
she only had withered roots to cleave unto

you long again for Her
to play the pretty pitter-patter
on the piano’s surface
but strip the instrument of flats
and the whites will quickly erode
to yellow teeth and tombstones

she looks deep into your own yellow eyes
that have lost their love-light long ago
and lets you know
she will not take those happy pills
to kill the black side of her
she knows you despise
play on, Sweet Lady!
your own truthful tunes
(and never mind that he stays or leaves)



At the piano bench

you                                   and I meet again.
you have your side                         and I, mine.
you take the bass                    and I, the treble.
playing parts                               not daring
to cross                                               
Middle C.
(yet the music bids us to)
fingers hes­-
itate to interrupt
our unwritten rule of caution
we abandoned our caution (and bikes)
at the end of summer (not so many) years ago
and threw ourselves
into the river-waves with our clothes on
Oh! – the daringness of swimming with­-
our clothes on!
our tires comfortably crisscrossed bet­-
we - en yel - low dot - ted
lines along the centre until the road split
to a stop.
did the sun that day
burn up the trail
left on the hot asphalt
by two dripping playmates?
you rode your way                        and I, mine.
but we meet again
to playa more sophisticated tune.
you see only a bench                  and I wonder if
you ever will see                           the altar


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