The Fallen
My girls just aren’t listening to me anymore.
I gave them a pep talk the other day,
putting them into their proper places,
I told them to stay.
I bought them new under-wires and
contraptions to lift and to separate.
Exercises to firm and shape.
Supporting my girls,
even in high impact activities.
Camouflaging them in
comfy cotton/poly/spandex blends
with breathable wicking,
to keep them dry.
In an elevator,
my girls used to push the penthouse button,
now I’m lucky if they can reach the mezzanine.
My girls just aren’t listening to me anymore.
I gave them a pep talk the other day,
putting them into their proper places,
I told them to stay.
I bought them new under-wires and
contraptions to lift and to separate.
Exercises to firm and shape.
Supporting my girls,
even in high impact activities.
Camouflaging them in
comfy cotton/poly/spandex blends
with breathable wicking,
to keep them dry.
In an elevator,
my girls used to push the penthouse button,
now I’m lucky if they can reach the mezzanine.
Laura LeHew
Laura LeHew received her MFA in writing from the California College of The Arts in 2003. She has been emerging ever
since. An award winning poet, her poems have appeared in national and international journals and anthologies such as
Alehouse Press, Arabesques Review, Big Pulp, HeartLodge, Her Mark Calendar ‘07/’09, Outrider Press, Pank, PMS, and
Tiger’s Eye. She received a residency from Soapstone, interned for CALYX Journal, and facilitates a critique group. Well
on her way to being a crazy cat lady Laura resides in sometimes sunny Oregon with her husband and their five
“children. www.uttered-chaos.org
since. An award winning poet, her poems have appeared in national and international journals and anthologies such as
Alehouse Press, Arabesques Review, Big Pulp, HeartLodge, Her Mark Calendar ‘07/’09, Outrider Press, Pank, PMS, and
Tiger’s Eye. She received a residency from Soapstone, interned for CALYX Journal, and facilitates a critique group. Well
on her way to being a crazy cat lady Laura resides in sometimes sunny Oregon with her husband and their five
“children. www.uttered-chaos.org
Cornucopia
It may be that the hour is snow
The yin and yang of sun and moon
It was the Moon’s voice growling deep and low
It could be like that now but no
I will hide my heart away immune
It may be that the hour is snow
I think you no longer hear me though
This moment’s assumptions do commune
It was the Moon’s voice growling deep and low
I think it’s time for you to know
Love is something darkly hewn
It may be that the hour is snow
All things unsaid sunlight into shadow
Intertwine the golden lion the unicorn’s ruin
It was the Moon’s voice growling deep and low
Forever turned out to be too long ago
Winter a never ending cocoon
It may be that the hour is snow
‘Twas the Moon’s voice growling deep and low
Contact
With a group of friends all coupling up two-by-two,
we, he and I, go Snipe hunting in the woods,
a sliver of trees separating houses and street;
our fingers caress and collide.
Through clusters of lilacs, cicada’s drone, June bugs
stumble in flight — I lodge white in the heat of his shirt
all lips and tongues hands and teeth;
first kiss as improbable as the steps on the moon
and dusk becomes us.
It may be that the hour is snow
The yin and yang of sun and moon
It was the Moon’s voice growling deep and low
It could be like that now but no
I will hide my heart away immune
It may be that the hour is snow
I think you no longer hear me though
This moment’s assumptions do commune
It was the Moon’s voice growling deep and low
I think it’s time for you to know
Love is something darkly hewn
It may be that the hour is snow
All things unsaid sunlight into shadow
Intertwine the golden lion the unicorn’s ruin
It was the Moon’s voice growling deep and low
Forever turned out to be too long ago
Winter a never ending cocoon
It may be that the hour is snow
‘Twas the Moon’s voice growling deep and low
Contact
With a group of friends all coupling up two-by-two,
we, he and I, go Snipe hunting in the woods,
a sliver of trees separating houses and street;
our fingers caress and collide.
Through clusters of lilacs, cicada’s drone, June bugs
stumble in flight — I lodge white in the heat of his shirt
all lips and tongues hands and teeth;
first kiss as improbable as the steps on the moon
and dusk becomes us.
