Monsters in these caverns, and a guide will warn of one or two
but always forget the third. They arise, slink in and out
of the night, and we call it dance. Parasites that we’ve been
taught not to splash out merely stream through these veins.
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.
Sweetness
Watermelon, just enough hydration to
get your body, enough sugar
to get your heart, stickiness
to snag your mind,
and I’m just enough rind to still be there
once you dare to take a bite. You’re so
summer, that I keep creeping up,
open roads that could use a little fuel, board
Country Entertainment
I don’t remember why the cellar was dangerous,
but the top level of the shed was 3/4 rafters,
and the attic was half gaping holes,
always in places you couldn’t predict.
You can only live on the edge
of a risk when forced to play it safe,
so we’d scale these dungeon stairs like a
ritual, to simply stand still by the
Order
I think it’s funny, the invisibility of hierarchies,
how if there are nine levels to the peak of the celestial,
I cannot see whether I am to climb
islands on the other
Sometimes I feel bad for the horizon,
distinguishing the shades of blue,
propping up our sky, holding
down earth’s ocean,
winds
leaves teardrops
nourish
you
decompose
to the teen visited by sad over-sharers in her dreams
I’m doodling down spontaneous phrases in the
handwriting I’d imagine the girl on the radio has,
calling it in retrospect a poetic exercise,
hoping I’m as accurate about the font
drink the spiked french toast batter
don’t say the national day off work aloud.
it ruins everything—turns it from a feeling into an annoying
lack thereof. but what i mean is, though i don’t have an album
for mid-july or december first, i always keep november
Muse: a Person. Crutch: but the Distance Between
Once upon your Kindness, I met a
marine who was a nun, and she could
waltz with as much Grace
as she could cut a cake with a scythe
at her wedding! You’d have Served me, had you
been at the reception, lemonade, Stronger a
yellow than that of the sun, that lights up the world for
you to be something I see.
I’d have passed you the strawberries for
her Genuine cucumber-butter sandwiches,
Sweet like Compassion, grass green like
the itch of being Alive. I’d have
insomni
i let my mind anxiety
in the moonlight
for hours.
four hours.
i’m well aware
it hurts,
not helps,
nor saves. it’s about
the work it’d take
Alphabet Ravine 