Laine Derr
Newly Bloomed
I was once, who I was,
screaming into the void,
a child once, who read
a hundred books below
a window, beneath a bush,
rests a hare not knowing
the land, it dies in darkness,
cicadas vibrating ((Om))—
May sky admiring a boy
ish body twisted like lazuli
buntings offering blue,
sloping songs calling us near.
Decrying creation I tear
the throat, blood tasting of
the newly bloomed, Saguaros
white in their zeal, I wail,
How deep are the bones?
Atomic Number 13
When she died, I drove
as far as empty, a valley
where tears sing of desert
blooms, hearts hanging
from a copper bell, now
quiet, waiting for its toll.
Along a limestone canyon,
I walk the wash, questions
slow and brittle to the touch.
I prefer living in the dark,
don’t you? The light, you say,
fairies fluttering, angelic circles
never-mindful of ends that meet,
a line not knowing left—lanky,
lovely, newly shorn, a boy
with wind-burned eyes, calling
There’s a hole in my heart,
My lips never lie.
There’s a hole in my heart,
So the blind will be.
There’s a hole in my heart,
Bursting with pools of rain.
For therapy, I started with my tongue,
agile, licking gums newly rotten, love
priced in pop cans crushed for change.
Aluminum lips fluent in recycled words,
silvery-white, reaching for its toll—