How is it that time rushes forward without me realizing it? How is it that I pause to take a breath and discover I have missed an entire day, month, year?

Monday Morning Required Reading. I post a fair amount of Canadian content in these Monday Readings (Carol Shields, Anne Michaels, Stuart McLean). This probably isn't a surprise coming from a graduate student studying contemporary Canadian lit. It did mean, however, that when it came time to pick today's selection - falling as it does on the Monday of the Canada Day long weekend - I was at a loss for what to post, not because of lack of choice, but because of the overwhelming volume of choice. A short story by Alistair McLeod? Something by Margaret Atwood? An excerpt from my favourite Margaret Laurence? Something funny by Stephen Leacock? A poem by Jan Zwicky? John Steffler? Dionne Brand? Daphne Marlatt? Robert Bringhurst? Anne Carson? Anne Simpson? More Anne Michaels? I flipped through anthologies, scanned my bookshelves, and finally settled on this, one of my favourite poems by Michael Ondaatje, "The Time Around Scars."

A girl whom I've not spoken to
or shared coffee with for several years
writes of an old scar.
On her wrist it sleeps, smooth and white,
the size of a leech.
I gave it to her
brandishing a new Italian penknife.
Look, I said turning,
and blood spat onto her shirt. 

[KEEP READING]