Sunday Poems 65: Live, from elsewhere

Hi. It's been a little bit. I'm your pal Theodore, and for a year and a half, I wrote a weekly series of blog posts called Sunday Poems. I took a month off because I needed a break, and sure enough that month off turned into nearly two years off. Whoops! The good news is now that I've had my break I feel energized, and ready to restart writing you again each weekend. For new readers, Sunday Poems is my weekly check in, usually sharing some thoughts about something I've read, along with an early draft of a poem.

The biggest change in my life since Sunday Poems went on hiatus is that I moved to Montreal last May, from my hometown of Edmonton, Alberta. At twenty-seven years old, this relocation has started what feels like a second adolescence, though with a heck of a lot less energy than the last time. I live five minutes from the best bookstore in the world, and while that certainly brings a new precarity to my finances, I've been happy to be able to find new books I want to read without delay.

Montreal has hot, wet summers, and cold, wet winters. Since the temperatures started freezing, we've had more days of freezing rain than of snow, and the cold takes hours to extricate from my flesh every time I return indoors. In the summer (which feels so distant now) I remember nothing but sweat everywhere. Any restaurant or cafe without air conditioning or a patio might as well be closed, and on the hottest days, the patios themselves empty. But now the kettle is constantly heating. There isn’t enough hot water to fill the bathtub. A few days ago, the lock on our door froze, but some lubrication freed it up to turn again.

Sunday is a good day to make homemade granola. Oats, nuts, and seeds tossed with honey and oil, toasting in the oven. The edges of the parchment paper brown. The granola itself dehydrates slowly. Once golden and removed from the oven, it gently hardens. The smell through the house is comforting like almost nothing else. Even if you aren't making granola today, I hope that thinking of it can bring you some comfort.

On a last note, Sunday Poems was previously supported by donations at Patreon. I might bring that back at some point, but for now, if you like what you read and would like to support me, please check out more of my work at, and if you find something you particularly like there, consider sharing it with a friend. Have a good week, everybody. Below is a poem.

keeping straight

room temperature water
boiled and filled glass bottles.

the tap's got too much chlorine
my nose has been bleeding
when i drink it.

a single plastic wrapped fruit
a hot coffee followed by a colder one.

we took off in the east,
mostly slept.

in a tailspin before the mountains
our pacific stretches organized
closing down the ports.

kissing on the rocks of the beach
digging feet into the stones
millions of years to find root:

exploring oyster beds
you cut open a heel from slipping
for the honour.

so many moments crawling themselves across the gap
on fire, so many moments together
turning off the lights
turning off the windows
kicking cicadas out of the house.

the pen finds the end of the line.

Theodore Fox is a poet living on unceded Indigenous lands on Tiohtiá:ke/Montreal Island.
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