‘Night, Harbour

by Jen Devlin

Stained glass platter 
Left on a garden wall 
Brimming with antique water 

Liquid thickening in its gilt surround 
Auric shadows 
Inlaid with glittering mold 

A slaughtered leaf floats 
Hole punch under a sharp shoulder 
Its veins a darker brown 

I went down to the ocean 
The brine tracing a crisp wind 
all swaddled and swallowed in dark 

I let go of depths 
Marching on with time 
In this Hard North 

I lost my way on the streets 
With impossible names and edgeless shadow 
Pulled to the bite of salt and grit 

I danced out of my heels 
In the lengths of wet grass 
Spurs burning 

Down Once pastures 
Leaning up against the city’s edge, 
Crisp quilted, stargazing 

I hopped the fountain fence 
Stretched to the shoot 
Bathed face first in a restless stream 

I paced lightly as the fallen leaf 
Tracing the streets, torn and tumbling 
And Having felt my season, stopped my veins 

I can still feel the eyes of this place 
Letting me see piece by piece 
The narrow arches like ancient limbs 

Shades of blue shattered stained-glass sea 
At the base of a dying red autumn 

Jen Devlin is a napkin writer who has been known to post poems on the fridge to greet their roommates. Longlisted for the CBC Poetry Prize in 2024, their aphantasia shapes a unique, vivid style. They write to create moments of catharsis and connection. Their writing is a creative act of tender rebellion rooted in their communities: people with disabilities and queer communities.