Poetry by Lindsay Launt

               ​ Christine Kuncke CC



​
Collections

We
spend time
collecting our
thoughts
but never
with
the intention
of letting anyone
into
our museums.
Halls
echo with
memories.
Save an entire
floor
just for
missed opportunities-
and another wing
for the
best daydreams
and hours
of hoping.
But with the doors
locked,
this space
is
nothing more
than
the realization
that
there is no room
for anyone else.

​


Epitaph

I want you
to choose your words
carefully
because
I will be buried with them
in
whatever
mangled, twisted
interpretation I choose.
I will – 
eventually – 
weaponize them
and blow apart
this entire
interaction
as soon as I’m done
holding them hostage,
Close enough to
feel their heat
but far enough
that I don’t get attached.
I need you
to regret
every word of it
so you will not hover
above me,
a ghost to my grave.

​


Creation

I
without caution
invented you in my head.
Explain away
each flaw,
justified
each shadow.
Projected
what I wanted
and
never
saw through
to the truth,
to the damage
being done.
Holding on
to this image
feels so real.
And for you,
walking away is so easy,
because this portrait
looks nothing like you
and it is easier
to not even try
to match my
brushstrokes.

​


Imprint

I can’t
affect you
any more than
you let me.
If you
Give me
permission
to come inside,
perhaps I’ll stay.
Sink into your
favourite
chair,
let it take the
shape of my bones.
If only for a brief
time,
I can still
leave a mark.
But if you fear
the skeletal remains
that you
cannot banish
to a closet,
then this was never more
than dust,
easy enough to
let collect,
but unmistakably
removable
once you regain
the strength
to exhale.

​

Lindsay Launt is originally from upstate New York and now seeks refuge in Annapolis, Maryland.  She teaches biology, but in her free time, finds inspiration in horrendous Tinder dates. Most of her writing comes to her in her dreams, and most of her editing involves drinking and pacing in her modest two-bedroom apartment.

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