hide-newsletter | The Walrus

A series of new poems by Susan Swan

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Cycling can be a joyous, community-building experience. But, as my family recently came to understand, it can also be fatal

Clients’ eyes are often drawn to the expanse— / all those miniaturized tugboats, minesweepers, / frigates, and cruise ships

Memory slithers, wicked. Its demands make / birds fly jagged into the false mouths of trees

I’ve had my green leaves and my bloom. / Now dry, I sense the pull / of oceans I can’t navigate

Not long after I started my job as a radio host, my mother told me she had tongue cancer

We’re both here, it’s dusk, my heart beats too