Tell the Birds Your Body is Not a Gun
by Rayanne Haines
Tell the Birds Your Body is Not a Gun, is a book of minimalist poetry, prose poems and poetic essays exploring family grief, healing, and trauma through the female lens. Tell the Birds Your Body is Not a Gun is a visceral narrative that questions our relationship with religion and challenges how we reflect on our own memories of trauma. As readers look to the past in the manuscript, they are asked to examine how each of them would experience and react to grief and abuse.
Winner of the 2022 Stephan G. Stephansson Award for Poetry
Shortlisted for the 2022 Robert Kroetsch Award for Poetry
$19.95 CAD
Additional information
| Weight | .226 kg |
|---|---|
| Dimensions | 9 × 6 × 0.31 in |
| Page Count | 96 |
| Binding | Soft Cover with flaps |
| Year Published | 2021 |
Rayanne Haines
Rayanne Haines (she/her) is an award-winning hybrid author and pushcart nominated poet as well as a cultural producer of films, stage shows, and panels. Rayanne has penned three poetry collections – The Stories in My Skin (2013), Stained with the Colours of Sunday Morning (Inanna, 2017), and Tell The Birds Your Body Is Not A Gun (Frontenac, 2021) which won the 2022 Stephan G. Stephansson, Alberta Literary Award for Poetry as well as being shortlisted for both the BPAA Robert Kroetsch Award for Poetry, and the National ReLit Award for Poetry. She hosts the literary podcast Crow Reads, is the president for the League of Canadian Poets, and is an Assistant Professor in Arts and Cultural Management at MacEwan University. Rayanne has been published in the Globe and Mail, Minola Review, Fiddlehead, Grain, FreeFall, Prairie Fire, and others.
The Point, My Friend
today the moon wanted the sun’s face and the sun wanted the moon’s smile so they traded places. at least this is what i told myself while dreaming of tying rocks to my ankles after eating eggs and rum for my fourth breakfast. if i stayed under long enough, surely the sun would change her mind and let me drown in shadows. turns out, a body can’t hold its breath as long as the moon. turns out, trying to die without dying is messy business. yesterday the neighbours i don’t know heard me screaming on the beach. now i have to apologize on behalf of the sun and the moon and my anxiety lemoning the sky—because no one enjoys seeing an unkempt life. and i, wearing a head to toe raspberry-sorbet pantsuit, have to go on living.