4/3/2018 0 Comments Poetry by Laurinda LindThe first bad thing was the mirror falling off the van in Vermont & then seconds later the zipper splitting on my wallet, woeful signs, silver of every kind spraying down the street on the long leg of a trip taken the summer we let the fifteen- year-old leave home to live with his father, so we worried about whether the world was saying, stop right here before you slide away farther east where you will only spend yourselves in holding close around the shards. Watching behind for the boy who won’t be there. Carapace Your tendency to hurt what can't be helped the boy at the bar with the softboned hand who took you home when he read you wrong & you wrenched away & you pounded him down the black snakes that met our boat that day at the island & like G.I. Joe you firestormed the rocks with an oar to beat them flat dead in your rage that they'd gone so far past what you could allow alive in their own habitat & within you hidden & sealed something sweet & sane that wanted the sun but got stuck down deep. Your father favored soldiers. Forced Flower Lily like a lightquake shaking all the way up its throaty petals leans too late away as from some kind of father, infuriating, like a flame to a fuse. But for now a daughter's face is still a flower though it’s charred, changed from what it was while she grieves a childhood but waits for her roots to grow strong enough to catch again somewhere else out in a more remote and random soil. Bio: Laurinda Lind lives in New York's North Country, near Canada. Some poetry acceptances/ publications have been in Barbaric Yawp, Blueline, Chautauqua, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Killjoy, Main Street Rag, Mudfish, Rat's Ass Review, and Triggerfish.
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