Published: July 28th, 2015
In addition to writing, Lauren K. Carlson raises goats and chickens on her family’s hobby farm in rural Dawson, Minnesota. She holds an M.A. in English from Grand Valley State University. Her work has appeared in Blue Heron Review and Fwriction Review. She was recently awarded a Developing Artist’s Grant for her work in poetry from the Southwest Minnesota Arts Council. For more publication credits see laurenkcarlson.com.
Floods Bearing Fertile Fields
Folded like a paper envelope, my slender wrists
I spread open and partway my soul bare. For this
place where two disparate elements crash
brooding lost treasures from the mud,
some dried, some wet, some rotten, some new
some smooth, some sharp, some living, some not--
The rhythm of the inward outward lung breathe,
deep fresh air lake breathe, no salt rings here
breathe, only corn stalk spines fighting surface,
forcing themselves through the bitter stone’s swollen
embrace which is the wind’s impression made force
which is like mountains,
which is the earth crashing into itself,
which is rock-hard waves heaving.
which is land on tide of alien shore--
These waves shore fingers--
these reeds clutch at feet,
remnants all dredging toe,
ankle, shin, wrist. Watching
patterns spread out, returning
swirling for fleeting notice:
Scattered between the ends of waves, and the beginnings of dirt I find a
pelican feather, standing straight up like a mast in the flood filled field.
The wind waves its white strands against the currents of hair collected
behind my ear.
Once I had a snow globe at the beach.
I threw it to the waves, and it rode over the undertow
floating like a boat. The bits of soap not snow, eventually
drained out, along with the chemical blue, that fluttered the snow about.
I laughed and loved the figures, as they bled into the sea.
I laughed and loved the figures, as they bled back to me.