I turned you into a proverb in the summer

I left my twenties behind, with more names than you

and I had at the beginning of all this.

But I remember: how I loved you

on Ashburn and Mandeville, College Drive and Canora,

at the altar, the Alt Hotel, and Roslyn Road.

I remember how I hid from your pining

in the bathroom at a Halloween party and how your friend

Claire was just outside the door, her coarse

whisper an echo across the next four years

just ask her ask her ask her and how I was dressed as

Mia Wallace from that Quentin Tarantino film.

You turned into somebody else on a day

in late February. I was lying on your mattress wearing only your

sheets and I pulled Nabokov from the bedside bookshelf.

Later you confessed how you felt that morning

as you emerged from the bathroom and saw me reading

in the white sun and how you just


We tried parishes and poetry but even those

words we sang into psalms of each other could not

save us. In the choir, I remember you

sitting in the tenor section, the way you looked at me

with a solemn sweetness, before the summer we had only

a window box air conditioner and I could not

put a finger on the immensity of our love

anymore, how your name would forever

and never be enough for me.


Sara Krahn is a writer from Winnipeg, Manitoba. She’s currently completing an MFA in Writing at the University of Saskatchewan and working on a novel. When she’s not writing and reading, she’s slinging drinks at a cocktail bar in Saskatoon or listening to her latest music obsession.