A world demanding meaning alternates between cynicism and starry eyes.
See, all a detail must do
is matter to be written down.
And all a detail must do to matter
is to occur,
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.
The Spot
two hands
to hold or to have
with the trees as our witness,
ask,
for the sparrows that record our song
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The Captain
He’s thin as a rail with this equally thin
yet deceptively puffy, oversized jacket-
navy, that
he never removes.
He’s also got a farmer’s hat
with secret script written round the rim.
He never removes this,
save for in prayer.
He claims that he’s an alien.
The Tree
There’s a tree which grows on the side of the road.
It stands not alone, nor hidden at the heart of an enchantied woodland.
Ordinary and unassuming, it meekly joins the scattered foliage dotting the local park.
Pass this plant on your trek to work, and notice how you don’t notice it at all.
Listen as it asks no attention of you. Feel the stagnant air as the modest tree
makes no attempt to draw you in. Its aura keeps to itself, taking only the space that its bark requires.
Pass the tree again, however, as you head back home to the warmth of blankets,
the delight and safety of lying down. Pass the tree when the night has fallen, when the sun itself has fallen too.
When You Leave
You will relax into the safety. Your biological rhythms will sort themselves out.
You will become so happy. You’ll gush with excitement
then begin to see how strange it sounds to be so grateful for peace.
Hearing your laugh, you’ll almost think you now take survival for granted.
Eye of the Hurricane
She throws me curveballs and crises like they’re tree limbs,
car parts, and siding that’s gotten ripped off.
She bats astonished eyes at me, says I never flinch.
I glance past her to all I’ve juggled before-
Lost keys, new jeeps, holes in walls, illegal rides,
electric the company won’t leave on,
shrill screams, and two feet of trash by the nightstand,
scrapped plans, and- I am the eye of the hurricane!
she keeps throwing around the term abuse
It was, of course, after the pastor said
that emotional memory can make up details that seem to fit the feeling we felt,
and after you confided in me all about your power to cave-
how you are her sane and grace, while she’s stuck irrational,
but you understand- because I understand! I always understand.
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Counterproductivity (feat. in Amphora Magazine)
Only five times each day, I play like my bed frame
is a tweed lounge seat, my shelf is a welcome desk,
you are my friend by choice, and things are like they used to be-
You here to pay attention like you would have better things to do,
if it weren’t for the fact that I am your best.
Behind closed doors, I mime conversation with transparent friend,
all for imagined your strong, silent type observance.
This poem wasn’t supposed to be embarrassing, but I am
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one-way streets
You’re walking on eggshells, and everything you do to try to make it better backfires,
since some people don’t want to be satisfied.
Vindictive vendettas taken out on you,
like some people need something to be mean to,
and if they see you as a person, you can’t be their thing,
so they call you a problem and use you for their pain,
when their hate is their own fault,
and there’s nothing you can do
to make someone understand what they choose not to-Read More »
Love you forever
You called like a god, celebrity
or college freshman,
so I put my Nair down, wrapped a towel around my shame,
glued my wet ear to the fragile phone, said hello
instead of, “Why me?” and let you worship, effuse like I
was way more than the wallpaper at my brother’s parties.
I’d been the entertainment once, back before the parties-
whispering nicknames and manipulations, like a kid sister alone can.
That was back before you, drivers licenses,
meet ups. But you were not before forsaken plans,Read More »
Alphabet Ravine 