by Cecily Laurr

She could drive herself a gentle crazy, spin
her wheels off the pavement, fling the gravel
close enough to hear waves.

Ask her.
She’ll tell you what happened, what clings
like burdock, pushing aside the brush with cuffs
still damp in the rainy pines. You’ll feel the
orange heat of backyard burning.

You’ll learn to get by, do without, become your own
statement, one more untried change of soul

and try to write it down, but only up to its heels
in apprehension.

She’ll sleep in cotton underwear, clutching
a pillow pulled to her hips and thighs and thinks

I don’t want him
     to be
          just around.

She’ll write in notebooks at the edge of morning sleep


when the cat with delicate paws on the flannel sheet

kneads her breast awake.

And the fog burns off in yellow sun.
And she’ll watch for something shaped in
linguistic fear.  It begs

to be left out, let out

to circumnavigate
the pulmonary ache of rare atmosphere.

She could hold radiant firebrick in gloved
hands, let the pyrometric heat warm her face.
Fragile children touch her knees.

Cecily Laurr wants to write lines that cross the parallels of gender, lines that sometimes follow those parallels far enough to a point where they might even touch. Laurr is an itinerant academic worker who spends part of the year in northeast Ohio.

Back to Issue 003: Jenny Magazine

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