This issue features 17 short pieces reflecting on the 100th anniversary of (some) Manitoba women getting the vote.
This group of sculptures, situated on the grounds of the Manitoba legislature, wearing knitted scarves by Cathy D’andrea and friends and joined by practicum students Natalie Podaima and Katrina Zmavc, was photographed by Janine Tschuncky. Treatment of photo by Tétro Design.
Sylvia Legris Airs, Waters, Places
Jan Zwicky Two Poems
Margaret Sweatman Children of Mars
Kate Cayley Housewife revised
Tanis MacDonald The New Adventures of Sarah Binks, Prairie Bluestocking
Meg Todd Barrhead
Walter Hildebrandt London 2011
Tanya Bellehumeur-Allatt Witness
Maryann Martin Two Poems
Christine Wiesenthal Yersinia pestis
Canisia Lubrin The Maw They Abandon
Julietta Singh Animal Talk
Alanna Marie Scott Waldeinsamkeit
Yvonne Blomer Fog, Grays Harbor
Yusuf Saadi Hunting
Vivian Vavassis genesis of the stars
Margaret Sweatman Intimate Power
Dora Dueck The here and who of me
Sue Sorensen Tell Him to Keep His Hat Right On
Ariel Gordon No Votes for Women!
Debbie Patterson Choice
Lorri Neilsen Glenn Enfranchise: verb [with obj.]
Jennifer Still Three Poems
Kirsty Cameron Sewing Factory, circa 1880–1980
Sarah Klassen Women before the vote
Randi Warne Sound Foundations
Faith Johnston Getting Started
melanie brannagan frederiksen The Girls at Recess, 1991
Arlea Ashcroft Free the Nipple
Chimwemwe Undi on naming (after lorde)
Melissa Steele Yes, Virginia . . .
Donna Besel “Nice Women Want to Work on Garbage Trucks?”
Deborah Schnitzer the gate of turns
Notes on Contributors
melanie brannagan frederiksen
Lorri Neilsen Glenn
Alanna Marie Scott
It takes us most of the day to drive to Barrhead where my father is working. Most of the day driving straight north into blowing snow with my mother leaning forward, chest close to the wheel, shoulders drawn up. “It’s not easy,” my mother says and I’m not sure if she means the driving or if she’s talking about my father who is a seismologist and away most of the winter. We’re going to Barrhead to surprise him because it’s New Year’s Eve.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Once there was a war.
The smoke was bad
and when it cleared, some said
that language could no longer bear
the weight of poetry.
Whose words were these?
Because they are women,
they stand in line.
One to another,
the question passes down.
In the fall of 1982, shortly after our family landed at Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion airport with our dozen suitcases, boxes of books and brand new roller skates, Israel invaded Lebanon.
This meant nothing to me. I was twelve years old and preoccupied with my jeans being a little too tight. I’d had my braces taken off prematurely before leaving Canada and liked to run my tongue over my smooth, newly straightened teeth. I wanted to know what we were eating for dinner. I hoped I’d have my own room in Tiberius, where we’d be living for six months while my father worked as a United Nations peacekeeper on the Golan Heights between Israel and Syria, who were also at war.