portion of the artwork for Lauren Marie Stevens' poetry
a wormhole in the land
Lauren Marie Stevens

oh the bitter children who were proprietors

literary on their own space-

time

advising the councils to

erect gates or suck

on certain sweet morsels

of honeycomb,

to defend a house or houses

or yards,

studious at diagrams with

the names of men on them.

where the dogs go is a native stance

and in our fleshy outfit of human

emotion reason and instinct inextricably woven

we move to the tune of the sea

eying with a cocked head the proverbial

set-of-scales which mouths the names of

those we know, and what we

have guard over:

crops, pride, relatives;

satiety,

assets and ontological figureheads

registered trademarks stamped with

the stern eyebrows of duty,



and likewise in that breathing dress

we stand under-star to think of

the strange yarn of history,

everyman’s house so big to them when

also they end up

a wormhole in the land

maybe well-dressed in a pale suit or ash like

yesterday’s bonfire



no matter what inventions

come to excite the social moan and tickle

the mind/senses/holy beating heart

(pyramids;

later, also pianos

and large plates of glass,

or elevators)

they still

would not manage to vanish the threat,

the threat

which is the impetus:

death, or failure; bad reputation, or

a hunger of some kind


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