Laurie Kolp
Why Aging is GeographicalMy cuticles are not
what they used to be. They crust and crack my thinning skin into clay. When I look at my hands and feet I see veins popping up like Blue Ridge Mountains. This raised topography tops off my need for leveled aging. I’m stuck at the surface of decay while you zip-line across the sky away from me. Lost in Gray MatterAn entourage of options
I explore on nights when sleep eludes me: what if number one finds me naked in a pool of blood, or number two refuses to lift me from quicksand, or number three picks the closet lock. A tremor, the obsession in my mind drives me to fictitious places. Lost, there is no detour back. The DisassemblyMountains the color of eggplant and kale
expand like a pregnant woman. I am kidnapped within a line of trees, frightened: am I the only one? I carry half a bottle of water, have pocketed unsalted almonds left by the man. Is this my grave or am I finally free to pass go? SidetrackedA two-lane highway country road
they travel down, the memories hit her like a junkyard load. A two-lane highway country road with fruit stands, windmills spinning odes antique shops, junk yards, free puppies-- the two-lane highway country road they travel down draws memories. |
Phantasm of a WidowThe shutter’s rap startles you awake.
Two men in ditch behind your house wrestle like brothers vying for a show of dominance, their lithe bodies like pretzels dipped in moonshine. Slumberous you close your window unfurl the dusty blinds, return to bed but a sudden clap of hands against the gutter lures you back to take a slotted peek outside and suddenly you’re lucid looking into eyes you recognize, eyes you once loved— the musky sweat of slaps in rush of rapture. You want to touch his whiskered cheeks just one more time, want to shatter glass and reach your arms into this other realm. You’re so close you can almost taste his lips, can almost rub your fingertips in sticky blood he shed that night he lost the fight, blood dripping from your glass-shard skin. To fall in love againfigure my spine
with sylphlike fingers lace each vertebrae side by side weave in and out with quiet breaths until my sudden gasp leads you deep within and bends me back to you. Hormonal DuressWe were trying to get by on one income
the year of birthing our third child in four years the year my hormones misfired bullets to your ego, my letting go of frustration-- too much time alone without adult interaction, the allure of becoming a stay-at-home mom not what I expected— and you became my target, you with the job that should pay more all those long ungodly hours spent at the office with people who didn’t praise you enough or give you a raise when I needed more than suckled milk to satisfy my urge to run the year Columbia disintegrated like a bombshell dropped before the reentry. |