Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Clouds Heave

His cat mourned better than I, lying
on her side for weeks across his room’s threshold

April 12, 2021 · 2 Comments

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Some evenings

Some evenings, he would hide his face in his hands
for a few seconds —

March 22, 2021 · 2 Comments

Vox Populi: You are invited

You are invited to attend a reading by some of the most talented poets in the country. The time is 8pmET Tuesday, March 2.

March 1, 2021 · 4 Comments

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: I was twenty then

The glint of those stares —
a flash of mica — offered to me &
just like that, I felt my loneliness shatter

February 14, 2021 · 3 Comments

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

December 2, 2020 · 6 Comments

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Arroyo Burro Beach

Look at me, writing circles around what I must face:
The man I love is dead.

October 26, 2020 · 6 Comments

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

September 9, 2020 · 4 Comments

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

August 3, 2020 · 4 Comments

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.

March 4, 2020 · 1 Comment

Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Stillbirth

I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.

February 17, 2020 · 3 Comments

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?

June 12, 2019 · Leave a comment

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

April 15, 2019 · Leave a comment

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

March 25, 2019 · 1 Comment

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

January 16, 2019 · 2 Comments

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