Poetry by Laurie Kolp

​Walking a Fine Line
 
Suddenly I’m not breathing anymore.
Lightness lifts from my eyelids like a suction,
the urge to follow it exhaustive
 
my will to keep still in this body, to fill
my lungs with air and thoughts with empathy
not strong enough. Through a tunnel
 
I follow adrenaline’s illuminated thrill
until I’m a storm cloud rolling in, looking
down on you. Thunder thrums from inside 
 
of me as if Thor lived there all along.
My mouth opens, cracked-voice trails,
angry yells encircle you, exhaling
 
ember on bare body, a rush
explosive. Slashing bolts: how they defer
unaffected deception. I never knew blood-
 
shot-slap-clawed shallow breaths
of revenge like this. From above, I watch you
writhe in fiery words, a child. Suddenly
 
I witness a wheeze of wounded ego depart
from your heart and embrace me. I rain
upon you all of my regret. The rage sizzles
 
out. I land back on my feet, can breathe again.
Now I am touching you, holding you,
loving everything about us, loving forgiveness.
 
 
 
 
(Don’t) Tell Me…
 
Tonight, I spend
a thousand minutes
inside myself.
 
When I first enter, I step
on sticker burs,
my heel like a knife,
 
the wall I kick. Further in, I trip
on dangling
hackberry branches, later land
 
on a lone layer
of mesquite thorns.
All alone, alone, alone…        I am lost in limbo.
 
Mosquitoes bite my arms
I slap fire—hot fire
growing wilder: neurotic thoughts
 
deepen. Within myself
the unfamiliar
tongues me different.
 
If I had only listened
to your implicit voice
telling me to come with you
 
outside myself. Maybe then
I might have become
teachable.
 
 
 
 
The Relapse
 
I am tripping out
on threadbare hillsides--

ephemeral apparitions
worship the ground.
 
I gather patches of regret
and toss them across clear rocks.
 
Swarming purple dust collides
with Perseus, I turn to stone.
 
A spirit rushes through me like a thunderbolt
and turns me docile once again.
 

 

A Quilt for the Cedar Chest
 
I’ve considered covering up my guilt
with a quilt; hand-sewn, patch by patch
 
a scratch of childhood memories
packed taut in downy blanket.
 
Piece by piece, a scrap of me
from when I gauged my self-esteem
 
inch by inch, no fat to pinch
or gelatin thighs to vex blind eyes.
 
I’ve thought about depravity,
lengths I’d take to escape
 
warpedness inside my head 
doubt of who I was beneath
 
the tufted edge, a cushion.
Acquit this quilt of guilt
 
that I conclude is not for me.
Place it in your cedar chest
 
with all the things compressed,
all the things I will not forget.


​
Bio: Laurie Kolp’s poems have appeared in Stirring, Whale Road Review, concis, Up the Staircase, and more. Her poetry books include the full-length Upon the Blue Couch and chapbook Hello, It's Your Mother. An avid runner and lover of nature, Laurie lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, three children, and two dogs.