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  November 2004
volume 2 number 4
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Matthew A. Barraza
  Tom Berman
  Jack G. Bowman
  Quiana Briggs
  Tony Bush
  Joseph Camhi
  Velene Campbell
  Michael Ceraolo
  Rosemarie Crisafi
  Dan Danila
  Francisco Dominguez
  John Feins
  Daniel Garcia-Black
  Ursula T. Gibson
  Larry Jaffe
  Donna Kuhn
  Marie Lecrivain
  Sharmagne Leland-St. John
  Laura A. Lionello
  Harold Lorin
  Rick Lupert
  Stosh Machek
  Kelly Ann Malone
  Terry McCarty
  Tim Peeler
  James Pinkerton
  Beverly J. Raffaele
  E.W. Richardson
  Ken Scott
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  Rev. Dave Wheeler
  Robert D. Wilson
  mailing list
Laura A. Lionello
November 2004



    Laura A. Lionello now lives in her hometown of Chicago, but she strangely misses Santa Monica. Actually, she missed you. Her poetry has been published in A Galaxy of Verse, Anthology, Celebration, Matrix (Germany), everything about you is beautiful, green room confessionals, Penumbra, Portland Review, The Blue House, Threshold, and others. In addition to being the poetry editor for poeticdiversity, Laura is a freelance writer and editor for a series of publishers and individuals.



Corpse Pose


The singular aspen is white

and panicked as a wish. It is

shedding its brittle skin of singed

paper like demon tongues. It is

licking the air like a hungry

lover, like soft tide coming in from the west.

Somewhere a wheezing child

wades barefoot through deaf wires

looking for a skull in the moon.

Somewhere else

a man flushes his identification

down the toilet,

and nearby a woman begins

every third morning

with a promise to abstain.

She lines the mirror in cellophane

to perfect her rippled pride.

It is cellulose and enlarged pores,

smeared mascara like a battalion.

Stillborn to ashes

and ashes

of green things and precious things

survived by all those things she has


gotten away with

(sometimes she canít believe

what she's gotten away with)ó

This isnít now.


You are still gone

and I

am becoming aware of my belly,

how it rises and falls with the regularity

of heartbreak,

how it is becoming more elastic and supple.

There is so much


between these breaths

that come without invitation.

I am apt to let this continue.


I am a preserved

piece of birchwood, burnt out, and

carefully watching

the city's gray outline through

the smudged dining room window.

I donít have to be

right all the time but it helpsó

especially when

deciding which shoes Iíll wear

the next time I visit you.

When wrong I cower

behind the houseplants and it

snows. I palpitate

with the drop of each flake and

nourish the ferns with my sweat.

The favors you grant

leave me seeing blonde, feeling

Macbethean in layered

teesóbeastly brown, worried white.

Desire can't bargain.


Look, you're still gone.


I am petrified

like even-tempered boredom,

a perfectly transfixed panic kit

with eyes on each of my fingertips.

Starched voices love valium

insomnia enhances lithiumís parched


at all those antidepressants

that adore a good merlot.

Dumb medicineó

sin, sin, sinódumb head,

I leave a worried tread

from the bathroom to the, desk, from the....

There is trouble in these parts.


The soul is a bridge to desire

spanning ever more treacherous

currents of memories

I donít even benefit from anymore

and it begins

with my interminable heartbeat

throbbing in my warm ears

and pouring out my open palms.

Look, I'm still breathing.

copyright 2004 Laura A. Lionello