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  • Untitled Document



    One spring and summer

    of my life I lived nowhere

    because that bed belonged

    to someone I had been


    before and I had gone

    too far beyond. I was

    scarce, I was like a silence.


    After everyone slept,

    where could I go, could I

    climb in the dry bathtub,

    was I going to break through

    the weak lock on the back

    door of a house where

    people hated me, what if


    I crashed on their couch

    but I left before they knew

    I’d been there. And if I

    were still like myself and


    I got that I could no longer

    keep going, but it was clear

    I couldn’t stay, either.




    Untitled Document


    if the spacemen come

    let’s hope they bring their passports

    so they don’t die in cages

    before immigration cops

    send them back to space



    Untitled Document

    These Things Change Us


    These moments like

    a moldy cup ripe like

    the earth and retrieved

    from behind the bed or


    our flooded feet once

    water spills over the field


                 or one afternoon

                 in an old shed with

                 a metal box whose

     insides heave with

                 a thick web of worms


    or regret that reeks long

    on a tongue, its harm loud


    like the horn of a ship that

    shatters the air on shore where

    they lose what they had left

    of complacency, even

    their common senses.


    About The Author

    Laurinda Lind

    Laurinda Lind lives in New York State’s North Country where not long ago, wind blew trees down flat and unroofed a school. Her work has been presented or accepted for publication in Comstock Review, Glass/ Poets Resist, Grief: A Life in 5 Stages, The Neworld Review, NonBinary Review, and Red Earth Review. Her work can also be found in an anthology, AFTERMATH: Explorations of Loss and Grief (Radix Media).