Poetry by Laurie Kuntz

     Martin Cathrae CC




Long Division
​
In the framed photo 
that sits on a dusty sill, 
the two of us draped
in a landscape of wildflowers,
flowers only you could name:

larkspur, foxglove, yarrow.

We were envied
for our spirit and the grace 
in which we walked, talked, and loved.

You believed in the overall 
goodness of every gesture,
I fixated on details, 
dissecting all we  shared:

larkspur, foxglove, yarrow.

I was the worst of us.
You had the more genuine smile,
the thicker hair, the thinner frame,
the floating gait, the accepting heart.

This kind of love between opposites
 can only remain intact
when put in a gilded frame:

larkspur, foxglove, yarrow.

We parted in summer, 
when the lavender bushes were in full scent.

Now, approaching another bloom
you come back to me, but only in this photo 
where we walk those blooming paths:

larkspur, foxglove, yarrow.

 Once, in an uninterrupted dream,
I saw you in a crowded bar--
a place you would never enter... 
far from rural hideouts.

You were surrounded by friends, 
the kind I have now that you are gone
they loved you, not me. 

In this dream, you were the best of us. 
I am foolish to ignore the years falling 
like rusty coins from a frayed pocket.

When I stare at the photo,
engraving your weak smile into memory,
I still try to do the math of forgiveness,
but you are bent on long division.

Sister, sharer of secrets, maker of plans
until the plans never ripened 

Unlike, larkspur, foxglove, yarrow.





Balance

I could write endlessly 
about all things foreboding
hurricanes and turbulence
more likely due to  warmer air 
that reminds us of a season 
we hope to thrive in.

From  June's blossoms come 
a life in harvest,  
dark soil blankets the roots 
of all that green:
a pasture, cross haired vines, 
meadows abundant with wild petals 
every bloom opens in summer's endless embrace.
We live as if nothing will ever end.

But, an end always comes,
hurricanes and turbulence takeover
a country's spirit, a body's betrayal,
an erosion of simple kindness.

Yet, somewhere a child 
is learning to ride a wave,
a mother is picking lilacs and lavender,
a father holds the seat of a two wheel bike
promising not to let go. 

We all need that balance 
to embrace an endless summer state of mind
while dancing in the eye of a storm.





​Laurie Kuntz has published six poetry collections (That Infinite Roar, Gyroscope Press, Talking Me Off The Roof, Kelsay Books, The Moon Over My Mother’s House, Finishing Line Press, Simple Gestures, Texas Review Press, Women at the Onsen, Blue Light Press and  Somewhere in the Telling, Mellen Press). Simple Gestures, won the Texas Review Poetry Chapbook Contest, and Women at the Onsen won the Blue Light Press Chapbook Contest. 
​
She has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Net Prizes. She won a Pushcart Prize in 2024.
 
Her work has been published in Autumn Sky, Gyroscope Review, Roanoke Review, Third Wednesday, One Art, Sheila Na Gig, The Bloomsbury Review, The MacGuffin, The Louisville Review, The Charlotte Poetry Review, The Roanoke Review, The Southern Review, The Eleventh Muse, Poetry Miscellany, The New Virginia Review, Crosscurrents, The South Florida Review, The Contemporary Review, and many other literary journals and anthologies.