Laure-Anne Bosselaar: The Garden
Because everything I learned from the stained
glass windows I was told to kneel under
still remains thorned & stained & torn,
& all the teachings I was told to believe, still
leave me dis-believing & I wish it were not so —
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Ode to Sungolds
Sungolds, coughed my old neighbor, a bird
shat the seed.
Kurt Brown: The Kiss
That kiss I failed to give you.
How can you forgive me?
Kurt Brown: High Diver
Now she pivots like a dancer, gripping the board
with her toes, and rises as it quivers with her weight
then settles again. She waits until it stops,
until she gathers herself up to balance there,
tall and undeniable, her back to us in the withering light.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: In Response to a Student Asking Where to Find Poetry During Difficult Times
In your friend’s voice. Or silence.
In all those years it takes for a barn to collapse.
In the terrified tenderness of a first kiss.
In a last kiss too.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Petition for this Day
May my modest routines appease me today, I who
raged against them for so long —
Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Kurt Brown: “Yonder” by Herman de Coninck
I seek a village.
And in it a house. And in it a
room, in which a bed, in which a woman.
And in that woman a lap.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Nostalgia
Nostalgias we share with friends
around a good table, nodding yes, yes, to our
glad sadnesses as we bring back a taste, a kiss,
that one song we will never forget.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Leaving It There
I stop weeding, stand still a while, hands on hips,
because it’s back again — that feeling of elation
tangled with grief.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Kurt Brown: “Just as this island belongs to the gulls” by Herman de Coninck
Just as this island belongs to the gulls
and the gulls to their cry
and their cry to the wind
and the wind to no one
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Postcard From The After Life
At the Saturday Pearly Balls, I conga
to the karaokes of yokels, popes, madams
& Nobels. No one wears a watch, no strike
of midnight to worry about. I’ve read all
the books & let go of the past — at last.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: About My Birthday
when the last leaves let go, let go,
have all let go, & it’s almost winter again —
don’t remember my birthday
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: “Breakfast Morning” by Jacques Prévert
He made smoke
Circles in the air
He put the ashes
Into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Dusk Again
There’s a particular light when fall days die
