My Work



By Lisa Lucas 

Inside this brown bag is a soapstone,
A small carving,
A grey and white structure,
Shiny and smooth,
Rocks piled on top of another,
An Inukshuk,
A land marker,
A beacon,
For the way home.

Here she goes,
Nana being Nana,
Sounds all wise n’all,
As if I care about a bunch of dumb rocks.

​A form that reveals journeys,
When folklore has been used up,
And there are no words left to describe the challenges you’ve faced.

She’s at it again,
That time was hard – my absolute rock bottom,
But this stone isn’t going to do a damn thing to help,
Nana, please drop it.

I know your road has been long,
Barriers obstructed your path,
Deceit took you the long way,
Often winding you round,
Till you dropped from exhaustion.

She just can’t seem to stop herself today,
Weird, she rarely goes on and on like this,
Something’s up.

​Hold it,
Really touch it,
‘Cause I know the smooth stone will be there,
For the journeys you’ve already navigated,
And the ones to come.

Okay, okay, I’ll touch it if it pleases you, old lady.
Ya, it is crazy smooth.
A Mac truck couldn’t pull this thing apart.
What’s it called?
An Inuk-a-tuk?

I guess I’ll put it beside my bed.
Nah, in my pocket.


Published October 2022


Published February 2023

Old Mirror

By Lisa Lucas 

Her eyes sparkle
just before she nails her jokes
her words
mostly dry.

really listen
‘cause one might whiz by whooooooshhhhhhhhh like a gust of wind
and the smiles
the laughter

Lately her eyes
dart back and forth
an old mirror warps her words sTill cleVer
sTill fuNNy
sTill drY.

But now reflects the residue
of disappointments.

Here’s The Thing Case 08-28

By Lisa Lucas 

For Tommy

You see that judge up there?
I have to stand beside the jerk almost every day in case some whack-a-doodle gets too close.
Look at him in those dumb black robes, nose in the air,
convinced he’s the smartest in the room, Mr. Brilliant Head.
Now take those docs that fix the mushy grey stuff in our brains,
and boom, give a lucky bugger a second chance,
or them teachers at those fancy schools that speak like ten languages. Say “a ruk tuk tuk” and they get it. They know what it means.
Makes kids feel good about themselves,
like their words count.
Now, that’s smart!
Let me tell you, this guy ain’t that.
Just last month, a young fella walked in,
kind of light-in-the-foot if you know what I mean,
came all the way from a place I think called Masadooneo.
Story goes that he had to get out in a hurry, playing on the other team and all.
There he stood shaking in his boots
when the prick decided to make one of his big scenes.
Get up and give me your phone!
So, are you really gay?
You do understand that if I let you stay, you’re going to cost this country a helluva lot of money. Now let’s take a look at what we have here.
Oh ya, sure looks like it.
Do you have a dating account? Forget it, I got it.
Oh ya…
The fucker stared at the screen for way too long,
probs got a few kicks.
Finally handed it to me to give back to the poor sucker.
Good thing he was seated by then ‘cause he sure did look sick.
I heard that the guy got to stay.
But you know, for a long time I felt real bad for him and I’ve seen everything.


Published October 2022


Published August 2022


By Lisa Lucas 

The sounds of a kitchen,
mostly predictable:
the shatter of ice when boiling water hits,
a song for tart iced tea.
The crunchy snap of an apple before the door slams,
savoured before the rush.

Sounds safely secured

until a pot drops
on a tile floor,
vibration jolts a memory,



Loot, Bookmarks and the J Stroke

By Lisa Lucas 

Her sisters-in-law watched in awe: 
Now thats a show!
A real Olympic performance.
She might even win the gold for competitive grieving. 
The puffy gold jacket glistened as she draped herself over the dead body, her loud cries,
now a cacophony of minor notes,
performance art for the old man she despised, 

choreographed to grab his loot. 

A coffee date with her oldest friend, a chance to speak of her mother: 
Her sewing kit was full of bookmarks. You know, I had no idea she made them. Heres one for you.
d want you to have it. 

Antique buttons anchored a blue-silk ribbon at both ends, a quiet symbol, beautifully crafted
to mark her place. 

They travelled far to be at her side,
shared memories sandwiched between liquid meals, medication and bedpans, laughs often heard from the warm, home-like atmosphere of the hospice room. When family and jobs demanded two of them resume their lives,
they urged the youngest: 

Mom could last for months.
t hold vigil.
She wouldn
t want that.
Take those canoe lessons she bought you. 

The mother passed as she wanted,
while her baby practiced the J stroke with a blue single-bladed paddle. 


Published October 2022


Published October 2022

Pink Steel Rocket

By Lisa Lucas 

Bella agreed to drive her.

She waited in the driver’s seat, 
sweltering with the door open, 
her pores oozing moisture and oil.

With bare thighs plastered to the seat,
a putrid smell surged in her nostrils.

She grabbed the keys to start the engine,
with sweaty fingers
and desperate fumbling,
the AC finally blew and sweet relief followed.

Until Zoey strutted out,
snuggled tightly in a camel coat,
brown wool-lined boots hugging her legs,
leather gloves pulled high,  
a thick wool tam yanked down,
and a soft pink scarf encompassing the rest
so only her eyes peeped out
for limited view.

For a moment, Bella imagined Zoey as an astronaut,
encapsulated in a pink steel rocket,

The image burst when Zoey snuggled herself into the passenger seat,
flicked off the AC,
flung open the door,
inhaled a long deep breath,
her lungs only satisfied
once replete with hot, dense air.

And while Bella burned hotter,
nauseated with acid welling up in her throat,

Zoey sang,

Heat Waves,
You can’t fight it,
You can’t breathe…

without a bead of sweat
or whisper of discomfort,
tucked tightly under her soft pink scarf,
happily encapsulated.