I was there when they found you. 

Innards falling from your mouth. Muscle wedged between your teeth. An eyeball in your left hand, nerve endings grazing the cracked concrete floor. 

I studied you in perfect silence, with the same devotion your forefathers studied the embalming arts. Your golden barrel curls, matted with tar.

Elizabeth Urso’s debut Gothic suspense novel, Hail Mary (Rising Action Publishing, September 22, 2026) follows Mary Foreman, who returns to her hometown to help her estranged family during a scandal-plagued election. But when the opening of a decades-old time capsule draws her into a criminal investigation tied to her family’s funeral empire, she must fight to prove her innocence. Not only of recent crimes, but past ones, too. For this is the North Shore of Lake Huron, and the past is always present where the dead don’t die.

Ribgrass by Nicole Mae is an atmospheric and haunting poetry collection. It explores the decay and resurrection of trans-queerness in the prairies. From farmland nostalgia to soft romances, Ribgrass is a vehicle for grief. The cyclical nature of mourning finds you everywhere⎯in an algae lake, in the kitchen fridge, in your hospital bed. It shows up as bugs in your bones. 

Whether it’s subconscious or intentional, people are often  thinking about money. It’s kind of a hard topic to avoid. Questions like how much we need to get by, how much others have, how to save up for that amazing vacation we’ve always wanted to go on, and so forth…these are questions we continually ask ourselves as we navigate life. And in the interconnected world of today, where corporations continue to grow, the cost of basic things continues to rise, and it’s dangerously easy to see what others have on social media and the Internet, the topic of money is sure to cause a lot of unwanted headaches. Arguably more than ever.

Waves slap the sides of the boat, sails snap energetically, Mama captains. “Look at you,” I say into the wind, my glasses sprayed with seawater, “so cool, hand on the rudder, in charge.”

She grins. “Tiller,” she says. “The rudder’s in the water. This is the tiller.”

I assume authors begin their novel with an epigraph for a reason, pointing the reader in a particular direction. For her debut novel Hollay Ghadery chose a quote from Henry James: “The increasing seriousness of things, then that’s the great opportunity of jokes.” The epigraph is pitch perfect, as is the title of her novel, "The Unravelling of Ou".

The humour is delivered in the form of narrator Ecology Paul, a sock hand puppet that female protagonist Minoo wears constantly on one hand. (To understand the origin of the name 'Ecology Paul' and the Farsi pronoun 'ou' you need to read the novel — they are integral to the story and should not be revealed here.) I have read references to Ghadery’s novel as 'experimental', because of this unique narrator, which I think is unfortunate. 'Experimental' creates a barrier for many readers and this novel deserves a wide audience. It is, in fact, an easy read — and I mean that in the best of terms.

The bar is less interesting than she imagined it would be. Plain walls, adorned with only a few neon signs and mirrors, generic swag from breweries. No military stuff like her mother talked about. The only interesting feature is a sackcloth dummy standing heavily in the corner, its appearance brutalized as though knives have been used on it with alarming frequency.

She goes to sit at the stool closest to the register and kitchen, but Olsen motions her to the one adjacent. He looks perturbed but disappears before she can ask and reappears with a meal that smells like curried heaven. He makes her a Manhattan. Hard liquor isn’t her thing—booze in general isn’t her thing—but it’s remarkable how well its vermouth and whiskey pair with the curry.

I think it’s really important to acknowledge first that many things can be true all at once, even contradictory things. Of late, with the flame-fest that the internet has become, I’ve particularly been cognizant that polarization is destructive, and that we need to find our truths near the centre. If we send ourselves too far either left or right, it becomes very, very hard to see the middle, much less each other.

In The English Elegy, Peter Sacks notes that the elegiac mode presents with a “dense matrix,” one composed of techniques such as “the use of repetition and refrain…reiterated questions” and tropes that evoke “the movement from grief to consolation.” David Martin’s nightstead is, both overtly and slantwise, a book-length elegy for his brother Ron, who died by suicide at 23.

None of my ex’s had a dog. I can’t watch
television alone. I am sloppy
with the weekend

For our second attempt at pepperpot, my husband and I purchased a roast, hoping it would tenderize well in the Instant Pot.

As we had done the first time, we bought a loaf of challah bread to soak up the sauce. We dutifully acquired more Scotch bonnet peppers and cinnamon sticks.

How my heart fell when I unscrewed the lid and realized we didn’t have enough cassareep to coat a second batch of pepperpot. As my husband sautéed the beef over the stove, I pinched an eighth-inch teaspoon between my fingers to scrape as much of the dregs of the cassareep as I could into a measuring cup. By the time my knuckles were sticky with syrup and I could salvage no more, I had collected less than half a cup.

The decision was not intentional. When I was initially thinking about the novel, I intended to have multiple perspectives, but at some point, due to a combination of reading Adele Wiseman’s Old Woman at Play (which is about her mother’s profilic doll making and creativity), and doing many crafts with my four children, a sock puppet wandered into my head. I became fascinated with the puppet’s voice, which was silly and sweet and whismically wise. I found myself disinterested in listening to any other character. So I didn’t. I let the puppet tell the story of Minoo—an Iranian immigrant to Canada struggling with shame, sexuality, and being there for herself and the people she loves.

It’s not every day a sock puppet visits a maternity ward.

Minoo and I fly down the hall, the anticipated squeak of hospital vinyl absent from under our feet. We are weightless, shoes barely touching the ground. A reflection of Minoo’s form glides beneath us. Wraith-like, we are darkly mirrored in the freshly-waxed floor. 

And Minoo—she stares ahead, unseeing. Not seeing me, I mean. As conspicuous as I am to everyone else, my existence is as natural to her as the weight of her tongue in her mouth, or the air filling the lungs in her chest. She doesn’t see the nurse who jumps out of our way either, flattening her body to the wall, blue eyes large with shock.

Being the subject/object of unwanted gazes, overt attention and other creepy male incursions, is so ubiquitous in most women’s lives that few even seem to address its rupturing dominance. Even when we consider ourselves to be outspoken feminists, writing about this pervasive reality isn’t simple. And perhaps it’s even more complex when the obsessive is an artist, or wealthy, someone we should supposedly feel honoured to have snagged the eye of so that, even if we don’t yield to their advances, we should at least shut up regarding our own resistance (despite the powerful examples of the #metoo movement).

How does the old adage go? Despite the sage wisdom of not judging a book by its cover, the cover of a book is a key first impression that informs a potential reader of what it’s about, inviting them to flip open to the first page and want to find out more. The decisions that go into a cover’s artwork, font choice, and other design elements are all important in creating an impression that makes a book stand out. And when it comes to books by Canadian small presses, there’s a wonderful opportunity for unique, beautiful, and more personalized covers that you might not always find with books published by larger houses or the Big Five. This is not to take anything away from books released by these publishers, which often have great covers of their own, but sometimes, especially in certain genres and trends, one cover to the next can seem a little formulaic. Not so with small press books, and the artists who spend lots of time and care in creating them, ensuring that no two covers are exactly alike. 

In a conversation with Brian Vines for a Twenty Summers podcast in 2021, Fran Lebowitz was asked about “the strange balance and continuum” between AIDS and the current COVID crisis. She stopped him and said, “Not at all. People ask me, ‘This is like AIDS, right? It’s nothing like AIDS.’”

I often encounter those who assume the AIDS crisis was like the COVID pandemic. It’s understandable, particularly for younger generations, but it’s misguided to view both pandemics in the same light.

When I moved to Edmonton, Canada from Jilava, Romania in elementary school, I felt so much pressure to assimilate that within a few years, I almost completely lost the capacity to express myself in my mother tongue. Since then, I’ve felt this desperate dor, or longing, for limba română.

My mother tries to translate it on the phone:

Harnică means you’re vrednică.
You’re pricepută, îndemânatică, dibace.
You work with spor.
Muncești cu râvnă.
Lucrezi cu zel.

For me, a poem is "finished" when it flows so smoothly that lines will randomly pop into my consciousness like catchy song lyrics. I know it's time to step away from the page when everytime I make a change, no matter how minor, I revert back to the original.

Between the day in June when Mrs. Harrison booked her death 

and the day in July when the doctor came, 

she grew heavy in the hospital 

on twelve last suppers.