Author: Alphabet Ravine

Lydia Rae Bush (she/her) is a poet rooted in lyric and dramatic traditions, currently exploring collaboration, intertextuality, and ekphrasis. Rae's work is Best of the Net nominated, examines embodiment and social-emotional development, and includes Free Bleeding (dogleech books, '25), Keeper, Seeker, Dragon of the Sea (Bottlecap Press, '25), and All the Little Church Girls' Paper Dolls (fifth wheel press, ‘26. Lydia is an associate editor for Sage Cigarettes Magazine, and can be found pretty much anywhere, generally wiggling.

Must Be Fear

September 19, 2022May 28, 2026 Alphabet Ravine2 Comments

Your irises always sing an aqua harmony,
but I cannot make out their shades when you
sit me down to hear your tale.

If the tension in the air is any clue, there must be fear dancing
in the wrinkles around your eyes,
but I am trying to count colors. I focus to discern.

Gaslight

September 12, 2022May 28, 2026 Alphabet Ravine10 Comments

You single-handedly lay and stack each strand
of the haystack.
I burn these allergens down one by one.

You wave the needle in my face
like an escape hatch,
burn through your accusations one by one-

Gollum

August 29, 2022June 1, 2026 Alphabet Ravine6 Comments

When the town said to mercy kill
and the sage said to pity-spare
but you had a moment of compassion,Read More »

narrative

April 19, 2022May 28, 2026 Alphabet Ravine8 Comments

I examine all the women who aren’t needy whores.
I see my reflection and hear their affirmations,
and start to think that maybe I’m no needy whore myself,
until I fear these women are just whores like me-

gives birth to baby in bombed kyiv metro station

March 30, 2022May 28, 2026 Alphabet Ravine4 Comments

When you came to be inside me,
our bodies decided we would survive,
and we chose a supporting role in all their mysteries
when survival meant nurture and shelter.