Two poems

Photo by jackson currie on Unsplash

By Lynsey France

Purgatory

Each nameless acre becoming puddle

creek, river (I’ve never been this far)

to describe skin; its heavier

sprouting active color, golden mud, womb, emergency, dirt

wallow: find out if it’s love or if it’s still the future

forage, collect, and I do : I am a wasteland with wet shoes

tracking up the kitchen and heaven, forgive me for melting–

utilizing the cloud as a mother, as in: I’m thirsty / as in:

I need more of myself to gather until

there is

nothing more to remember

in case this is the end, to start over.

Estuary

it took hesitations to find a heartbeat,

mostly chimes,

iron syllables gone to rust

waiting for a pulse

until you decide already what holds my blood

there will be bells

wind–

through the semicolon,

an orchestra behind me

like sunsets calling morning… wait,

Lynsey is a young writer and textile artist living in Kentucky where she attends her local college in pursuit of language.