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Category Archives: Poetry
winchester valley riflesman
Winchester Valley riflesman: it is for you I have died in the snow it is for you I can do nothing but lie amongst the pages of your journals and scream; perhaps this parchment one day will be alive … Continue reading
persistence
You run hotter than most people: ninety-nine degrees but you still need blankets. I am too warm, holding you, but I say nothing and do not stop. To the left our lamp is dead; to the right, through a window, … Continue reading
communism
we are communists you and I: we share what we think always: I give you my fears; my constant reluctance to admit them; to me you give your trauma: I hold it, try to make it leave; stop when you … Continue reading
aggression
I had a dream that I spilled orange Fanta all over your black leggings; your thighs were sticky and smelled of fake citrus. You coiled back, the wetness a foreign feeling, and swore at the dampness and my clumsy wrists … Continue reading
Knowing the Leaves Will Return
Read about people going shopping during the pandemic, buying books, bed sheets, discounted Christmas wrapping paper, as if those were a measure of survival, while I watch the same naked birch as last year, knowing the leaves will return, only … Continue reading
Millennial Poem
It’s easy to say “God only gives you what you can handle,” while my generation burns out like Christmas lights left plugged in all year. Memories of the grade two gifted program overcooked by faces bright with curiosity (switched on … Continue reading
The Library
After ‘Glanmore Revisited’ by Seamus Heaney “We must do something about the book room.” You are the one for renovations. I like it as is – small, cramped, overstuffed. Your eyes survey the shelves Taking in the books, the disorder, … Continue reading
Ancestor
We arrive at our destination. The trees with their bitter apples Hold the evening light. Down the road A horse stands in a churned-up field His coat long against the winter cold. There are dead flies on the windowsill Weeds … Continue reading
The Art of War
sometimes they’d drag in God this fountain that cross what year the Lord came down for who would admit they’d been praying to the wrong one for the first half of their lives? so they scurry like blind mice into … Continue reading
touching a coffin
i am as good as i can get but all the colors of the earth cannot satisfy the metallic hunger scraping my throat wound, vermillion from all the speaking, the launching of noise across the rift. how do i find … Continue reading
Waves
Today I become liquid noise, and my wet coughs catch on the wetness outside of me. It is tangible; it is disconcerting— The warm slow movements of my body work in tandem with the current, with your hands that fill … Continue reading
Me and the Mrs.
Waves of expression wash across your face the wind brushes your hair the mist glosses your smile and the backdrop seascape competes for the casual cinematographer of my gaze and yet I neither propose marriage nor a toast or in … Continue reading
laundry
you must remember how the fabric hung on the line: blood-stained sheets folding over the wire like damp and heavy butterfly wings coiling backwards into cocoon-hood. you must remember how the nylon would stretch: between our hands in a tightened … Continue reading
Home
I have been there first and left dandelions in my wake I will not go to any of your funerals Ara Lawrence is a queer transgender lady from Michigan. A software engineer who’s secretly a theologian, and a theologian who’s … Continue reading
Fluid dynamics
I wield trust at the point of a sword carving arcs four feet out to hold my carcass as a fort with a lifted flag in the occupied site of my soul when that falls what will I hoist but … Continue reading
Convex Harbor
I wrote you a song swelling with thunder but forgot to send it. It had your name on it, written in blue ink. A color that reminds me of port cities, where children gather to send off ships and the … Continue reading
Abyss
In 1654, the French philosopher Blaise Pascal’s coach was almost thrown off the bridge at Neuilly-sur-Seine. Afterwards, he became convinced that an abyss had formed on his left-hand side. Every night I sleep alone on the left. A lover once … Continue reading
Supermarket Gladioli
I write poems about sex what else is there now but this parade of little gods that blaze and are put out, and plastic-wrapped gladioli. I picked the ones without a single bloom, succulent antlers, in a vase on the … Continue reading
A Country Gets Examined On The Autopsy Table
earth has more veins than soil coursing its viscera. i mean, when nigeria was laid on the autopsy table the doctors found: skeletons of dead flowers, decayed remains of justice, disembowelled body of hope, a flag with fangs for blood, … Continue reading
Moon Bones at Sea
Moon bones worm through the dark waters. The sea at night. This channel is deep enough to draw the biggest fish. I see scales, but I imagine bones: slim, slipping through currents. If I could pick which to touch, and … Continue reading
Burial Jars
Egg-shaped. Clay. Earth-groomed. Crackable. They cradle the slope of the curled body: arms fetal, coiled legs. They offer: nest, den, homecoming. Two can fit this way, each resigned to the bend of the other. After, it will take time to … Continue reading
Walking the Bay at Conway
On the worn cliffside trail, we’ve come apart when we spot the eagle erect on a limb at the point. The bulk of its body is nimble, dark against the fog-smeared sky. Beneath us, cedar roots twist regally, their buckling … Continue reading
Remember
The fear, of course, is if I look too long at this photograph of us, I might entirely forget what it felt like to be in it. Even now, I see through the eyes of the photographer. Even now, I … Continue reading
12 Trees
In the SoCal suburb where we lived for four years in a hundred-year-old house with a bedroom and a half, with a fruit cellar, the trees were always in bloom— a different tree, it seemed, every month. So I had … Continue reading
Fujiwara no Okikaze
Where I never left now intersects where I never was. Who is left that really knows me? The city is a dream of recognizing strangers. I look at every face on the subway. Steven Turrill is the author of five … Continue reading
