It seems the constellations have killed each other.
Leo taking Hercules’ finger, Orion wearing Scorpius’ sting.
I don’t know that we’re fit for the stars.
Author: Alphabet Ravine
Lydia Rae Bush (she/her) is a poet exploring themes of embodiment and social-emotional development. Her work is Best of the Net nominated and can be found in publications such as Corporeal, Querencia Press, and Bleating Thing. Her chapbook Free Bleeding is out now with dogleech books.
birch
birch
Read More »When He Prompts Again
If I am whiplash and I am a noun,
then I am injury, and that can’t be right.
But I could be a verb. Am I an action—
a sudden movement causing a turn about?
a human a person a name my name myself me here
i am
Read More »Liminal
There is a seashore
where we relax because the waves
tell us to—
something about low blood sugar and a misogynist playing a triggering song
When I send off towards the side of your ear an earnest,
is that what you’ve brought? and you position yourself to better
figure out your answer, I don’t come and say, hi, are you
okay? so you do the come part while I still don’t say it—
Voice
Little pieces of you in my veins, like shards.
You say, you got me wrong,
and I say, ah, honey, that’s not you, that’s me,
is it my fault,
thrill
Decision letter erasure poem after Burnings Magazine
(original publisher of “Voice” and “sometimes when lydia wants to answer a question, she”
Sunset
I hold onto your hope—
Read More »Ember
Some gorgeousness, all the wrong
colors—bright red
in this black & gray, white &
brown, all the light reflecting. I’m
Alphabet Ravine 