Her scent entices
I’d risk chill for first tender
fragrant breeze of March
(feat. in The Lanthorn)
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.
Ani’s Song (Star Wars 3)
I tried to wine, dine, and dance
after holding your rough hands,
closing my eyes,
slaying grace.
Illusions of my upper crustRead More »
Lesson Plans
Grubby thumbs, bubble gum, and tire swings
set the stage for recess- Our turn to teach.
Sean’s sitter had shown him some algebra.
Keith knew what sex was. Hazel had met God,
and Em could map the local ghost’s hide outs.
Me? I shared my expertise on hatred-Read More »
Digging Through the Attic Chest
Digging through the attic chest,
throwing kisses across the floor
Digging through the attic chest,
scavenging for something moreRead More »
the girl that fell
The fists that hit,
cuffed.
The feet that kicked,
chained.
The girl that fell,Read More »
Dig
Soft, fresh, padded arms,
never tanned, never starved,
freshly powdered, swung their way
to Grandma’s House.
I knew I visited the coolest grandmother
when my tear-free washed, towel-dried arms
pressed out against cool linoleum,Read More »
the thumping
pound
on
the pavement
poundRead More »
Storms (See attached document)
countertop conversations
kissing me
cold
selfishly,
intoxicating liar
the bottle is my
unfaithful partner
and I am her
abuser
Berez
By six years of age,
one ought to know some basic lessons,
like, “Not a peep ‘til the teacher calls
on your raised hand.”
I knew this lesson.
Berez did not.Read More »
Alphabet Ravine 