I once studied in the hall of mirrors,
kept my back to the reflections.
I never recognize myself anyway.
I looked out the wall of windows
on the other side. The courtyard was green,
long into winter, because of how the light
bounced, I think. If something is true
there is a scientific explanation.
When the building fell apart they rebuilt.
A towering newness, made all of glass.
Before you think to yourself, oh,
what a nice tribute – you should see
the numbers: the casualties,
the way they rack up and rake
away the piles of broken birds.
Shana Ross is a new transplant to Edmonton, Alberta and Treaty Six Territory. Qui transtulit sustinet. A Pushcart and Rhysling nominated author, her work has recently appeared in Gigantic Sequins, Laurel Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Radon Journal and more. She is the winner of the 2022 Anne C. Barnhill prize and the 2021 Bacopa Literary Review Poetry competition, as well as a 2019 Parent-Writer Fellowship to Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. She serves as an editor for Luna Station Quarterly and a critic for Pencilhouse.org