Laura A. Lord

October 23, 2025 I find myself slack-jawed Finger grip Half backwards step Sharp shoulders to my earlobes A subpar cry of what I wish was rage But reads exhaustion Reads barely mobile Reads guttural grumble I realize fear is so common It executes flawlessly Slips from men with shadowed faces speeds through our veins quick as a vine through woody overgrowth fast as a ziptie round…

I am simultaneously too much all at once and too little, too late. I came hurdling out of the darkness, startled starling shudder of wings. I am operatic ranges of starving bird pitch, hunger battle cry in the bamboo forest. I am shadows and sunlight, glinting through the woody overgrowth. Delicate and sharp as a needle hanging by a thread and slipping from your grip. I am common…

The first time I said “no” It sounded like “I love you.” He whispered it against my ear, the words swiveling around the shell – “Tell me you love me.” “Tell me you love me.” “If you say it, it won’t hurt like this.” “Say, you love me.” And he was right. The words slipped, limp from my lips and froze against the soft skin of my neck. He flipped me over, eye contact that was magic movie…

my grandfather stood waist deep in his Sunday best white pressed sleeves rolled back to the elbows the thin line press of his undershirt stuck like pith to his stomach, chest this was the same pool I’d done flips into the day before red-rimmed eyes – chlorine stung knuckles scraped from dragging my hands along the bottom I had smuggled a cigarette into my purse hid behind the pool house…

I told you I was broken and with a manic urgency you set off screaming down the road of destructive positivity – “You’re perfect, babydoll.” “You’re just fine.” “Are you smoking crack, ‘cause that’s broken. And you aren’t broken.” I am okay with my broken. I have no need to lessen who I am. I am the steep, sharp edges of a cliffside. I have watched as fickle shards of myself have…

You are a hollow concrete wall, stretching miles into the gray sky. You are steady, unmovable, perched on a plateau, untouchable. And I flourish in transformation. I am lacy tendrils of running blue water zig-zagging a dance down your barricade. I am the shimmer in the distance, small dust-cloud rising, as the earth moves under your feet – gorgeous earthquake. It all transpired so…

This body is a thing of beauty. This body is the gorgeous stretch of scars that link the pale, soft flesh of my chest. This body has been home to babies I’ve held, babies I’ve raised, babies I’ve loved, babies I’ve lost… babies I’ve grown and and nursed and passed on to arms that weren’t mine. Babies I only see in photos, half a world away. This body has been laid out like a…

I want to disentangle the image I see of me, anger parked behind my teeth like a tire on top of the curb – the loud, gritty crunch of asphalt enamel twisting under the weight of it, crouched on the tip of my tongue, a tile tiger propped against the wall, an art deco mural: The Splendor of Rage. from what you see: busy weekend grocery store, a mother with children in tow directing…

My memory is red wrapping paper crinkled at the corners. It has a tear in the side where the glittering star meets the tangle top prints of evergreens and frosted snow. My memory is bits and pieces held together with tape. It was wrapped by a child – steaming mug of cocoa by their side with three ice cubes, melting glaciers bouncing off the marshmallows. My memory scratches the backs…

Grief is a punch in the throat

while my lips are wrapped around my favorite piece of hard candy.

It’s the lump in my throat,

choke as the sugar melts,

pain in my chest,

stitch in my side.

I walked through the doorway.

My eyes touched briefly over the waddled-up blanket on the floor

and for the briefest of moments

I saw your shape –

serene curl of sleep.

You…

I can paint an impassioned trip down memory lane

as sunflowers growing with wild abandon along the windowsill.

I can pluck each charming bloom,

heavy-headed and bent to the dirt.

I can watch petals flutter down,

dark seeds embedding themselves deep for conscious growth.

I can lay my head down on fertile earth

and let the roots you’ve planted rock my memory to sleep.

I…

I am walking circles around our dining room table.

I am folding napkins and placing them,

just so,

beside each setting.

I am all jittery elbows and forced witty banter.

I feel his fingers slide down my shoulder –

some strapless thing I must tug back into place.

I am letting my thoughts skip

dancing along the frayed edge of our tablecloth

like a kitten, distracted,…

The hoodoo woman drew my star map like she was leaving a breadcrumb trail – Hanzel and Gretel style directions for me to see how every line between me and you was a unique scar stretched across the space between an Aquarius sun and Scorpio’s moon.

I could pinpoint the exact moment your touch picked me up, lifted me from cardboard lost and found box and placed me, delicate dried flower, upside down…

I have sketched the stars into the backs of my eyelids. I have lain there, captured in the darkness – one minute, hours, forever. I have allowed the light to break softly, little dust mote soldiers marching under the weight of my faith, carrying more lost images –

of you holding me in your arms in the shower, blood running underneath our feet and down the drain… your fingers gently washing my hair.

Her mouth opens, tight bow unraveling and I see gold coins pouring between her teeth – noisy offering that clangs and bounces off the peeled linoleum of my kitchen floor. I watch them spin on thin-edged devotion, skid to a halt at my feet.

I am ritual starved – the ram in the temple. Madonna eyes are following my every move. They’re willing me to fold, bend down and confess as fingers scrabble for…

I could walk across broken glass, slice the red river Nile from heel to toe and I’d apologize for leaving behind bloody footprints on your hardwood floors.

I am all unnecessary guilt and ritualistic fear. I’ve been training for this moment my entire life.

I discovered my grandmother’s footprints. I followed them through the house, down the leftover fragments of sidewalk. I waited in her long-gone…