Lesley-Anne Evans

There is no angel.

There are cicadas clicking like a vinyl record riding one relentless everlasting note. There is occasional lowing—dairy cows content with alfalfa beyond the electric fence. There is my cotton sundress. And my dusty feet. There are damp curls sticking to my sunburned neck.

When I am four. When I am electric—the white heat of want.

There is my grandfather’s garden.

There is a blood-red globe larger than a grapefruit. There is a scent—green, sharp, hard to wash off. There is beauty. When I see. When I reach out and take it into myself as though it is the only answer I will ever need.

There is red. There is red blood like wine. There is thin skin. And sharp teeth. There is puncture, bite, and softening of jaw and lips. There is the making way for sun warmed flesh. There is the haloed aroma and the tender glabrous leaf. There is swallow, saliva, and licking lips, there is abundance and ambrosia that cannot be contained, there is spilling, and washing, and dripping, and there is wanting more.

There is no shame.

Lesley-Anne Evans is a published Irish-Canadian poet. She writes and welcomes those seeking solitude at Feeny Wood, a spiritual retreat in Kelowna, B.C., on the unceded ancestral territory of the Syilx Okanagan Nation. Lesley-Anne installs Pop-up poetry and forages wild berries. She helped found “Red Couch,” an micro gallery for marginalized artists, and co-created “SEE:kelowna,” a museum exhibit in the voices of those experiencing homelessness.