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Stephanie Kjaerbaek (email) Kelowna, BC, Canada


About the Poet:

Stephanie was born in Powell River, BC., the daughter of immigrant parents from Europe.  She was educated in Social Work and Accounting.  Stephanie enjoys poetry, drawing and attempts at painting.  She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is presently employed at a newspaper.


January, 2009


The imperfection of rising and falling from a
place above leads to riding on the wings of
a dove down in darkness.  He cries over her
silent words of indifference.  She'll inherit
his money, nevertheless.  He is overcome by fright.

With hatred, he sighs.  If he could cry, he would.
He thinks, "If I could escape, I'd get out." He can't.
He's in his own prison.

The amount of space between the sheets
and his emotion appear in the cloudy mirror
of sky above.  His family connections haven't

A knife pointed to his side, he promises
a rose to a thorn.  In a ritual of words without
rings and certificate, he curses his deathbed but
resounds in pleasure over his bride.

He will crush his connection.  Every sigh he's
released has resulted in anger.  She is not over her
old lover.  He asks her, "What is on your mind?"

He's running to the crash site.
Distance has allowed him existence
of dream landscapes he once knew.

Drawn blood wounds his open flesh
as the needle digs in deeper.  Infection
swells his nodes as he pulls himself up.


Colored her eyes dark against scarlet
lips and the bending, curved hips
She's leaving for her act in vain
A little blue alleviates the pain.
She was sitting around in the circle
haunted by black magic, her tragic lips
before cut-glass cheekbones as she lit up
an escape plan with fire.
She lives out for the one desire
of the full noon before night,
taking flight to Tokyo, another
episode before the contract
signing, she couldn't go.

She refused the appointments so she
sat around the restaurant all day
making threats while wearing a frown.
She walked in her circles with careful choices
of words above the soothing soul and white noises
of the radiator.  She was a gladiator of filth.
She'd stick any substance up or down there for
his chance at being her third boyfriend or so.
He had another two on the go.

Her daily sacrifice to the pretense of
staying sweet and nice.
Problems?  She could walk away if she didn't
have glue and chemicals on the brain.
So she'll get her tips together
and swear off doing this forever
as she leaves the scent of jasmine and
greasy stir fries behind and she pays no mind
to the sad followers as she goes, thinking
she's got something on the go, somewhere past
Tokyo.  One night her oyster, if she drinks
up the liquor and smiles silently, maybe.
She has to attend her circle.


Underground Figurine

he hasn't handled a natural breast
since the nights of ninety-six
she has to get something off her chest
and it's more than silicone
chatting all night on the phone
about the failure of romance
while she wiggles her hips on
thick heels waiting for the next dance
he once asked a natural girl out
she told him with a natural pout
that hers were really nice
but he'd never get to see them
so he could get away from
An underground figurine

who hopes that life turns out this way
down the crooked track while headed
the right way
down-and-out in donut shop
working for a high-school flunkie
arrested for theft and fraud
and hauled up in remand
with hookers and a heroin junkie?