Mercy on an old friend
(his mind in cirrus
his head hot
with sunset heft)
gleaning that your departure
has no reason save
only for departing


we grew together
in the heart of this
moat of white foam
marooning us into the city

so: enclosure made
a companionship tighter
than the line of horizon
dividing sun from seabank

the neighing of your steed
seems to repeat
your one cool
wave adieu

you leave me
like tumbleweed
(dun-brown with sun)
and catch like sheaves
of wheat the wandering
flame to wander many miles
into plateaus ravenous
with newness running
into mountains who mirror
my worn and heavy memories
of you eroding to an insatiable absence


first memory:
our frolicsome boys’
bodies and the fragrance
of cassia binding the air

I thought it would be
a forever & fevered thing,
our durable eternity

in this city encircling
your parting way
empties the inconsolable
my love alone
was not enough so
you will be, in leaving,
always besides me

there comes a time
(rising from the horizon)
when I will care for your
happiness beyond
what hand I might
have in it

fan photoFan Wu is a function of displacement, a chameleon with his tongue caught in a rotary blade, and writing this bio from a bar in Beijing called 'Hollywood'. His book of translations, tentatively entitled Hoarfrost & Solace, will be published May 2016 by espresso press.


He stood outside my window, peeked in through a hole in the curtain. I saw his soft brown eyes, pretended to sleep. We were seven years old. He would take me by the hand and show me the frogs jumping in the creek, his secret tree house.

His dirty hands, the infectious laughter in his grin, and the way he would pronounce his L’s —long and rolling. He knew how to fix everything. Machines, broken animals: his quick fingers and furrowed brow could make anything right.

There was a darkness that grew in him. It came out in bursts of tears. Frustration. Loud punk rock. His laugh, it was gone. He would yell now. Putting a hand on his back was like touching flame, unpredictable and sure to scorch.

I was safe when I was with him. But then I wasn’t.

I was different too. Distant. Scared. He was too much for me to handle. I went to his house, we were sixteen then, and he cried into my shoulder. I patted his back and ran out of the room as fast as I could. Afraid of burn marks.

And then I left.

Do you remember that dream you had? The one where I came out of the crowd and hugged you for the rest of the night? I was what you needed. I’m sorry it was only a dream. Last New Years Eve I sat outside in the woods. My breath frosted under the clear sky and I sang to you. I prayed for you. I dropped tobacco for you. For your darkness. For us.



strong lines
your hands create as they carve a story out of thin air
eyes speak of a past, deep and raw

you own this world
as words form into being
your tongue flicks over your full lips

my own pulse quickens
and a burning blush creeps
from my cheeks downwards,
you notice

our eyes meet
and your hands,
they hold me in your created universe

fran cunninghamFrancine Cunningham
is an Aboriginal writer, artist and educator. She is currently working on her second novel, collection of short stories and an adult picture book. For more information you can find her at www.francinecunningham.ca.

While echolocation takes a summer break to assemble Issue 15 and recharge our pens, we'll be featuring work on our website from a few exciting new voices!

Chelsea Eckert


domestic aches
in the house of ribs, under the arms,
in the bloody fridge that informs lung and limb
of their pre-determined reactions...


look into the night kitty-eyed. outside the trailer of the world:
the noise of the multiverse. parallels in chrome edges. the silver
of unmoving rivers. blankets that capture the same shine color

sheets: the sleek metal solitude. people over there in perfected
emotion. that reality. einstein riding out the years in a box. an
omni-president and cubed laws like numberless moths. like bar-codes

the fever licking me is one of butchered curiosity. the blender on
high. three tomatoes in the window. skyholes yawning potentialities



In Chinatown the shi are curled with orgasmic ferocity
against places of importance — they weigh the world.

Your soul spots; you conjure Salvador Dali, who had
an ocelot. Exoticism twists fire, throws fireworks.

Once the serval yawned and you held his jaws open
to the party, the pad of your thumbs against his fangs.

He had ease in the diamonds of his skull. The bandying
of scents, insects in fists of wind — inconceivable.

À la inherited wedding dresses, he symbolizes wholeness.
And for whom do we pray? He grins in your Christmas card.


Chelsea Eckert will be attending UNC Greensboro for her MFA in creative writing in the fall of 2015. Her work has appeared or will appear in Stoneboat Literary Magazine, Dressing Room Poetry Journal, Touchstone Magazine, Jelly Bucket, 99 Pine Street, The Maynard, and Ignatian Literary Magazine.

While echolocation takes a summer break to assemble Issue 15 and recharge our pens, we'll be featuring work on our website from a few exciting new voices!

Chloe Burns


IN YOUR FIRST LIFE you were a small blue fish the colour of the sultan's bluejade bowl he filled with the ashes that fell from his mouth (you coveted) he wrung you out every day lifted you from your pool of tranquil-city wrung you out draped you out on his white sheets in a small puddle of drying salt & your salt was worth rubies: this you remember: in your next life you were a stuffed otter in a museum display, itching & smelling like old wet cloth, the opposite of water & you stilled behind the museum glass full of schoolchildren's marbleeyes you dreamed over and over of the water you'd lost you plunged through like liquid light the plague of the scientists for whom light passed over & through their hands like wax yellow gloves: then in yr next you were slimhipped & sleek, you finally recognized yourself in the metalblue mirror you sobbed & your cheeks drew like salt curtains: you scorned artists' models and swore like a small globe of blue glass that your body would remain only your own encased & untouched porcelain: but you fell in love, and he would take off all his rings to touch you & then go out with his travelling salesman suitcase & your fingertips burned as you drew sodden sheets from waterbasins: wrung them dry & dry & dry


Chloe Burns has recently been published in The Casserole, Lantern Magazine, Tendril Literary Magazine, Bitterzoet and Red Kitty Magazine. She agrees with William Carlos Williams, who said: “I think all writing is a disease.”

While echolocation takes a summer break to assemble Issue 15 and recharge our pens, we'll be featuring work on our website from a few exciting new voices!

Michelle Speyer


I’m not talking about a mari usque ad mare,
Atlantic to Pacific, salt to salt.
How to learn the breadth of such scorched earth?
Supermarkets, mega-malls, half-logged forests
bookended by the weight of oceans.
Liveliness measured in tonnes of silver-
skinned salmon and crawling lobster.
Rootless millions digging for their myths.
Now and again the strike of the spade against soft gold, oil,
a gem resembling an heirloom from some old countree,
reason enough for inscribing white white pages.
Jet from Halifax to Vancouver with Air Canada, fuelled by coffee.
Wave au revoir at both terminals in English and in French.
You’ll need a second cup. Test whether the salt crust
edges will burn your lips, tongue.
Skim across the nation, look but don’t touch, don’t love, recycle
your Starbucks cups wherever you go. Enunciate
for the baristas when you speak your name,

or be quick and offer up a pseudonym (there’s no extra charge).
But caffeine dehydrates, and we all thirst.
So? Rise. On the wings of your intuition and with your untested muscles.
Follow to the place where you will soak your desiccated roots
in native water, grip packed soil. Where prayers meet a wall that admits them.
See if it remembers you. Remember
that in the desert you can grow into a tulip, tomato.
Veined and fat with fresh water. Test whether your flesh
can cool a mouth in the heat. Whether your fruit can fill a palm.
Seas to the west, east, south, heartbreaks
neither Atlantic nor Pacific.
Their salts drying bodies in the sun.
Asking if you could remember any other place.

Asking you to spell your name, asking
which fresh wave, what part of this love is terminal.


Michelle Speyer has omnivorous reading and writing habits. You can find some of her most recent work in echolocation and Acta Victoriana.