Place me along the breast of the blue jay when it claps its wings,
that I too may turn concave,
blown back by its power’s rush,Read More »
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.
The Loudness of the Night
It is with urgency that the crickets chirp in each other’s gaps.
The wind rushes through the reeds on repeat,
as a lapping wave, and the owls insist
on crying out their rhetoric. Would that I had doneRead More »
My feelings towards you confuse me,
My feelings towards you confuse me,
or at least they would
if I ever bothered to think about them.
I don’t.Read More »
jumping
I like to jump.
Jump is the good thing for me.Read More »
On Being an Ideas Person
After a month of nearly falling off the bottom of the earth,
Ma placed me in my bed, where I woke imagining
feeling wide-eyed, refreshed, wondrous of where I was-
jumping off the bed, landing in flexible splat as impossible
as the dogs I used to try to draw were ugly.
I didn’t really know how dogs’ heads or human bodies worked,
but I wanted a Lisa Frank retriever and my butt to be in the air,Read More »
The Tag-Along
The thing about having your house burn down
in the 2K’s as a teenager
is you totally lack control. I
know; I can tell.
Because I’ve tried to find clothes
that were cute, clean, and matching,
and warm preferably,
in time to escape the fire
that’s interrupted my shower
with brisk November air.
Yes, the thing about having your house burn downRead More »
Gift (To All the Ones I’ve Left Behind)
You are in my heart, annoyingly-
a shadow,
a remnant,
a ghost I cannot truly grasp,
a crevice nothing else will fit inside.
So I write poetryRead More »
Writer’s Block
Giving Doctors “The Talk”
It is the trauma that teaches me to announce my threshold of pain,
high as the pilot’s realm where the air is clear,
the sky is above, and the ground is clouds beneath your feet.
Threshold of pain is the title, but the real name is mask,
strong as my steel iron soul; They will both break as one.
It is the shards of my very self that I keep cutting my foot on
Genuine
I am in love enough with details
to be OCD, a poet, self-aware, far too engaged all the time
with every milliquiver of my fibers,
and I think I’m understood,
that my intentionality is seen,
that my terms and movements are known as technical.
But I’ve taught no soul my tongue;
if I do go noticed, I go labeled as odd,
and honestly, nobody cares! They are not in love with me.
And why would they be? I am captivated
by details. I am busy. Making good choices.
Alphabet Ravine 