Creative Corner showcases original creative work from UFV students.
Isolde
My uncle died last year.
And I’m starting to think he was on to something.
A handmaiden let slip philter and tonic
so sweet it might turn blind an eye, still a tongue, deaf an ear,
to the recreant ring of restraint.
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Love, they called it once.
Or something close enough.
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Or hatred and blame and other,
moronic inheritance.
Look at him and his little-more-than-a-name,
wrapped in sorrow and joy.
Sons but not twins.
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Quiet echo. Quiet ploy.
Widening bruise.
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Something in their lives—
In their T’s—and it’s ironic
that my uncle died last year from overuse.
Because I’m starting to feel
the pulling of a tide.
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The way his found him—
Chasing my own Isolde,
While it draws me back in.
Sons and not twins.
And tiles lain in the bathroom floor…
the rising ground meeting his limbs,
shelter only gifted on a whim.
Oh, how sweet-lipped. How glass-bottled.Â
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Brangane, could they have ever pulled away
from their union wrought by patient fate?
