These three poems by Kelli Lage explore the gritty past that can stick to us and how we overcome them…
by: Kelli Lage
Blackout
in December and you’ll be liberated
next to the dying elm.
They say the moaning sore’s been dying for
ten years. I didn’t know timber death
could be so unsure.
Don’t mention a hometown withdrawal
because you’ll get back this afternoon;
pacing salved streets,
scavenging for an offering to make this itch dry up.
Blood waxing and waning under a barren tree.
Holy communion of pink and orange. I choke down every shade
cold can throw.
Highway Elegy
Remainders are pouring
out of you.
In the shower, in nightsweats,
in the drivers’ side seat.
Sometimes you have to soak
your already pruned hands,
feel every incline of injury
and heave it out the window
while you dig your foot
into the highway.
Then you have to lock
your tendons in place.
So you’re not tempted
to slam the brakes
of your lips,
face tight for impact,
whip your being
and scour through
the sutured ditch.
Mother/Hunter My dreams hunt me like a dog’s tremoring nose through a self-inflicted fence hole. My dog, guiltlessly shielding me like a mother, like a sister, like a child.
Kelli Lage is an assistant poetry editor Bracken Magazine and Best of the Net and Pushcart nominated poet. She is the author of Early Cuts, and I ‘m Glad We Did This. Lage’s work has appeared in Stanchion Zine, Maudlin House, The Lumiere Review, Welter Journal, and elsewhere. Website: www.KelliLage.com.
