Deal$ deal$ deal$ at the Liquidation Centre

Graphic by Thom Bell

Describing the melancholic end of summer and the promise of fall: a poem

One theme Brynjar Chapman finds himself exploring time and time again in his work is the end of summer—the peculiar and melancholic threshold that exists between end and beginning. As we move deeper into fall, it may benefit us to pause and reflect on this transition. Here, Chapman does just that, meditating on the bittersweet sentiment of another summer passed, with experiences had or missed, lessons learned and connections made.

Brynjar Chapman hails from Toronto, Ont. and is in his fourth year studying creative writing at Concordia.

It’s the last stop on the way out of town

they have everything here!

mugs and hats that say, among other things,




and shirts with proud animals or confederate flags

a room, the room of a thousand knock-off crocs

where, as a dare, we stand until light-headed and about to pass out among the fumes.

It’s fun, everyone says so

and we take pictures

but in the car, with Tom,

our silence has weight

so does the smell later in the front hall

of a familiar house left alone for two weeks.

Just last night he was at the fire and barely out of the light

he was wet-eyed, wine in his hands

having just posted to the Facebook of a dead man

It’s on these nights I miss you most.

I felt for some reason I knew what he was feeling because

earlier, I saw him through the bathroom window


his face was so sincere with red effort,

a face he had never even seen

(unless of course he pooped with a mirror)

and I felt bad that I looked but also nearer to Tom

and glad that he has this place.

In the car I had regrets:

I didn’t jump off the train bridge this year

or I didn’t savour it–the moment before running into the water–

it splashing around my ankles

then the big cold step, the submerge of the crotch

feeling like I’ve accomplished something

but what, exactly? Forget it,

because there’s nothing better than freshwater

and being hungry after a swim

for white bread with meat, and chips.

Because now in the car and at home it’s August

the Sunday of the calendar year

and I don’t have everything in front of me

like on the shore, where a small, long lake held in it,

peed out in secret,

everyone’s year

and their collective fear of snapping turtles.

Graphic by Thom Bell

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