The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Laurie Byro’s “Luna”

The Sundress Blog

laurie-cloistersThe Lighthouse Keeper

The lighthouse keeper kills his mother.
It’s the same old story. I walk the neighborhood,
head bent low with frost. This could be a crate
filled with sea glass. Two poems rubbing against
one another on our porch. I’ve abandoned
one or both, sharpened my longest nail, filed it
to a point, shoveled snow and ash to snort you up
my nose. I’m tired of straddling a white
picket fence. We breakfast on Tab and Tylenol.
You fuck your mother over and over, rattle her
like teeth in your back pocket. I start drawing finches
with black crested tiaras. It’s all in the way
we walk, my friend. Seaweed tied to our wrists.
Naked-eyed I look out to sea. The lighthouse keeper
has stifled her heartbeat finally. The light shines
through blue Siamese eyes, remote enough
for one of us left and still afloat.


This selection comes…

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Losing Paradise, poem by Elizabeth Alford (MY MANE MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

Silver Birch Press

Alford
Losing Paradise
by Elizabeth Alford

my hair was once long
and too thick — like
the swollen-bellied serpent
who may not feast again
for six months

too easily whipped
by the merciless wind
like a slave who needs
one moment
just to breathe

and seeking respite
from split ends
is as fruitless
as the endeavors of Eden

we were slaves then —
conditioned to obey
God, desire,
even the snake

yet we didn’t just eat
knowledge—
we devoured it

my hair was once long
and too thick — but now,
I think I’m losing it

my combs and brushes
are full of shame, and I can’t look
myself in the face

and every strand that drifts away
is another fall from grace

PHOTO: The poet’s high school yearbook photo from 2005.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: According to WebMD, “losing up to 100 hairs a day is normal.” Okay.

ABOUT THE…

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The Long and Short of It, poem by Robbi Nester (MY MANE MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

Silver Birch Press

roberta n2The Long and Short of It
by Robbi Nester

Once, I dreaded nothing more
than the two words “pixie cut.”
Feathery and fey, just barely
covering my ears. Wasn’t it
bad enough to have the stature
of an imp without the haircut too?

Like others cursed or blessed
with curls, I wish for nothing
but a thick straight do, growing
past my shoulders, down my back.
No braids for me, no smooth straight bob.
Grown long, my hair puffs out
around my head, a ball of baling wire,
dandelion gone to seed.

Nothing to do but snip it
till it piles around my ankles.
Hairdressers have shown me
the part I never see, lacking
a rearview mirror. Orderly curls
and waves others can only envy,
once pruned judiciously,
topiary in a formal garden.
But somehow, after I leave the shop,
each wave rebels, springing
sideways from my head,
refusing to…

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We Don’t Have Victories Anymore by Colin Dardis

I am not a silent poet

A found poem based on the transcript of Donald Trump‘s Presidential Campaign Announcement on June 16th, 2015

We don’t have victories anymore.

They kill us.

I beat China all the time.

All the time.

When did we beat Japan at anything?

They beat us all the time.

When do we beat Mexico at the border?

They’re killing us.

A group of people,

a nation that truly has no clue.

They don’t know what they’re doing.

They don’t know what they’re doing.

Obamacare: you have to be hit by a tractor,

literally, a tractor, to use it.

When was the last time you heard China is killing us?

They’re killing us.

I don’t care.

I’m really rich.

Somebody said, “Oh, that’s crass.”

It’s not crass.

“Please reconsider.”

No.

We’re dying. We’re dying.

We need money.

Thank you, darlin’.

I think I’m actually a very nice person.

I’m really proud…

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