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
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Farmer’s Market in Antwerp
I remember this so clearly — as if it happened today.
How she arranged her skirt, rubbed her hands together.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Fire Season Again
The fire now climbs the mountain’s back.
A red-gray haze swirls around the setting sun,
& the skies rain acrid ashes — tiny moth wings
flickering over everything.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: The Worlds in this World
Elsewhere, somewhere, a tide recedes,
incense is lit, an infant sucks from a nipple,
a grenade shrieks, a man buys his first cane.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Widow’s Bedroom
Light puddles over the old floor planks, then climbs
the wall behind his place in our bed, & glows there.
Past noon, slow shadows douse that light & push it
out of the room. As if they knew he won’t come back.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: This Longing for Him
Another dawn. Fists in my pockets, I head east
into this street of bungalows
as if I belonged here, among the hundred windows
lit one by one
Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Michael Simms: Zoom Reading
Please join us today, Saturday May 18, 11amPDT, 2pmEDT for a Poetry Reading by Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Michael Simms
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Brief
It happens so often: there — somewhere
in a line, waiting room or store — I see you,
& it’s something about your work-wrecked
hands, cow-lick, the perfect curl of your lips
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Early Morning Considerations After a Night of Rain
Good morning, welcome, new Thursday. I arc
the blankets away. The dog sheds gladness all
around me as war news shrapnels out of NPR.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Morning Praise
Praise not God
or fate, but the weeds & leaves that soften
the earth under my steps toward the widening
light
