portion of the artwork for Lauren Marie Stevens' poetry
sea dreams, and the Big Fence
Lauren Marie Stevens

calico notions, vague buoys, quasi-assembled stuff,

stubbornheads with a taste for spirits and drawn to different countries

to work a locale in 8000 bc they’d fully domesticated einkorn,

and emmer, and barley in mesopotamia.

from there, cattle, and pottery, and irrigation,

wheels and words, now our animals are smaller

and we eat the reared, there are no wagons.

we have assumed the mishmashed characteristics of

children-of-immigrants, lineology plop-put in then new climate of favor,

pale north-belongers wincing at the sun,

cultures of specialization borne from surplus

peasant farmers feeding the priests and artisans

growing corn for those who aren’t growing corn

sons and needers honeysuckling sweet hypotheticals out of the weird earth

all born of the same absurd beautiful root

thumbtwiddlers ridin under the easy moon shone o’er the magnet in the bone,

living daylights and cats on ledges. bungalows the gong and the tower.

little arrow ever forged in the follow up.

whistlers and crawdads revolving homage to the happy luck

inhibiting the carbon sublet,

and all the bone and oil

songs and mathematics and curtains and good humor.

cradle spits blue and yee-haw, a twirl in the gut, a fingerbiter daughter,

knock on wood for that daylight, objects held together in one look,

thunder the rolling notion, and the earth goes wet and soft where it does.

so it can all start innocent enough can’t it, it’s the safety of relatives is what-is-what,

what the ghost haunt asks for, for salt-over-the-shoulder

to melt loneliness to the bone, trying to warm

yer mammas, keep the pendulums, and parties, the safety of

relatives becoming then the hollow manythings all shelf-slapped,

or laws, doodads, medicine, networks of highways looking like

roman amusement parks,

for you and i and all of us under all the glowmilk stars

pinpricked on our ceiling

and we clamor for the resource wanting to carve out a

safe living of whichever opposable thumbed comrades

by gum

to pawn the antique crime they’d share their wheat?

Return to Archive

FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 33 | Summer 2011