Still by Nolan Natasha

Just when you think you know the colour
of the sky, you see the way it talks

to the mountain and now there are more
shades of grey and blue in the windshield than stones

in the sea. And you realize you know
nothing and that knowing is nothing,

that naming the colours is good craft,
but futile because you can’t even say

what you feel. And you can touch the gear shift,
but not her leg, so you look at the colours,

say Wow! Look at that! Isn’t that something else?
And she tries to name the colours too

and does much better than you. But because
you aren’t listening as hard as you are breathing

you won’t remember what she said, but
you will still see the colours and you will still feel

your hand that is not on her leg.


Copyright © Nolan Natasha. Originally published in Prairie Fire (39.1, Spring 2018).


Nolan Natasha is a queer and trans writer from Toronto, currently living in Nova Scotia. His poems have appeared in The PuritanThe Stinging Fly, Event, Grain, Prairie Fire, and Plenitude. He has been a finalist for the CBC poetry prize, the Geist postcard contest, Room Magazine’s poetry contest, and was the runner-up for the Thomas Morton fiction prize. His first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming with Invisible publishing in the fall of 2019.

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Prairie Fire is an award-winning Canadian journal of innovative writing that is published quarterly by Prairie Fire Press, Inc. Each issue is a fresh, vibrant mix of fiction, poetry and creative non-fiction by our most celebrated writers and the hottest new voices of our emerging writers. It consistently features solid writing that will engage your mind and delight your spirit – and has been doing so for over 40 years!

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