Poetry by Bill Howell

             Jo Guldi CC


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​FILLING IN THE BLANKS


We gave each other extra space to be separate 
because we were twins. 
                                                   The gift of distance 
annihilating the gist of since.  
                                                             Even when 
the other guy wasn’t there, each of us knew 
we weren’t that original. 
                                                     Still, I figured 
we might compare memories, cut through 
the glib clichés & rediscover a brotherly mirror 
to divert inverted reversals. 
                                                         But he drank 
so much, he said, that when he stopped, 
he couldn’t remember much.  
                                                             A convenient excuse 
or just the truth? 
                                    Or a threat to his best reasons 
for starting to drink in the first place. 
                                                                               Hey, 
it doesn’t matter, I said. 
                                                     Because we’ve each become 
who we are in spite of ourselves.  
                                                                      Meanwhile, the sky 
flies by. 
                  With huge gaps between clouds 
as the world makes up its mind.

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Bill Howell has five collections, including Porcupine Archery (Insomniac Press). He has recent work in The Antigonish Review, Canadian Literature, Event, Juniper, Naugatuck River Review, Prairie Fire, and Vallum. Colloquial, anecdotal, and grounded in a shared world, his poems have been widely anthologized. Born in Liverpool, England, he grew up in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and has lived in Toronto for more than half his life. Bill was a producer-director and program exec at CBC Radio Drama for three decades. ABC and BBC-4 aired his Midnight Cab series, and Nightfall (NPR) has become an internet classic.

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