Laure-Anne Bosselaar: The empty room I loved
I was free, I was twenty. I fell wholly &
forever in love every week. I was hungry for life
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Arroyo Burro Beach
Look at me, writing circles around what I must face:
The man I love is dead.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: So, how are you?
So, how are you? friends ask, all kindness & concern,
heads cocked, eyes locked in mine.
&, just like that, I’m his again:
his wife, his widow
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: There was a Room in Antwerp
There was a room in Antwerp I loved so much
I never filled it with books, a bed, or a table.
It was alive with its own clarity
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: On My Walk to the Hospital, Death
Death in the fog, all silver
& grisaille as it wreathes
& muffles children in the park.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Stillbirth
I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Man at the Museum of Modern Art
Why do I follow him — what
is it that makes me do that, often, in streets or
subways even, getting off before my stop
to follow a man, woman, couple?
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Ode to the Schorren
& their skin-thin silt the Scheldt ground down from rocks, slopes & swamps — a rainy-day-gray mud, that satin muck that slips through fingers & escapes toward the insatiable North … Continue reading
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Briar
A friend betrayed me yesterday. I loved him for his rage, hungers & big flat feet he stomped . as if he wanted to leave imprints everywhere he went. I … Continue reading
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Counted
In the park — while her mother & another woman hold each other & kiss — the child counts pencils in a box: one, two, four, five, seven. She has already … Continue reading
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: The Pallor of Survival
I’m lucky: autumn is flawless today, sidewalks freckled rust and red, and the sun gentle. I’ll take the back streets to … Continue reading
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving today. Soaked with sleet. No sun for six days — six is the Devil’s number. I have looked through this window, at these American skies for 5 times 6 … Continue reading
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Garage Sale
I sold her bed for a song. A song of yearning like an orphan’s. Or the one knives carve into bread. But the un-broken bread song too. For the … Continue reading
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Litost
. And waters went on with their dance of chance and light as the boy drowned into the river. The Czech have a word for what he felt after he … Continue reading
