Alison Luterman: Jasmine
now we’ve grown into our own
miniature galaxy,
a wall of starry scent
June 29, 2022 · 5 Comments
Alison Luterman: Witch Walk
I don’t know what I’d expected–a portal, perhaps,
to magic me elsewhere, but she spoke only of a slight shift
in perception, that which might allow
a tiny purplish wildflower to be a doorway.
May 4, 2022 · 1 Comment
Alison Luterman: At the Jeweler’s Tent
I hold a string of amethysts up to my collarbone.
There are wrinkles on my neck now,
rings of crinkled flesh like tree-markings,
one for each lived year
April 13, 2022 · 6 Comments
Alison Luterman: A Woman Speaks of Marriages
I’ve known marriages like Niagaras, that splashed and thundered,
whose couples careened down them bravely, wearing only barrels.
March 23, 2022 · 5 Comments
Alison Luterman: She for whom I am named
left Russia at fifteen to follow her betrothed.
Good-bye, skinny chickens and fly-bitten cows,
synagogue leaning on one side, as if to dodge blows
from a Cossack’s boot
February 23, 2022 · 4 Comments
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