At first they wouldn’t tell us.
We could see some of the signs—
flags beside the power lines,
handfuls of strange, new words—
but not even they could say
where it was going to end.

As soon as we knew, things changed.
They issued fresh ID tags
and told the farmers to stop
growing corn. All corn is now
porn, they said. Pop it wisely.
Then they gathered as many

unicorns as they could find
and brought them to a big room
with blue walls in the centre
of the city. Every day
I walk by it and pretend
that it’s filled with great men.

---

Angus MacCaull has writing in Prelude, CV2, filling Station, The Review Review, Hamilton Review of Books, and Ricepaper Magazine. He is also the author of three picture books. He lives with his family in Nova Scotia, where he works in communications and serves on the board of the Writers’ Federation.