My brain runs down
every branch of the thought tree
while my body
is still beginning to climb the trunk.
Yet, my body
hammers eight 8th notes
while my brain
stays on a whole rest.
If I have a soul,
I think that it is the puppeteer
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.
Boxes
He said, You’re the most complex person I
know, and I said, Thank you,
I have complex trauma.
Fielding
Oh, I don’t trust anyone
further than I can throw them,
or, more importantly,
closer than I
can extend my arms
to hit them.
Coral
I want to be the green palm tree standing between
the sand and your pink sea-side cottage. I mean,
I want everyone who washes up on your
shore to know that I decorate your home.
Slices
You shoot me a mere glance, while I’ve zeroed in on
my twiddled thumbs, but my peripheral vision
fires a snapshot of your energy’s self-directing, and
I straddle it. I revisit it alone on the toilet, in the recliner.
Risk
Someday, I will learn
I can respect another’s autonomy and my
own at the same time,
allow others control while
taking responsibility,
give people my emotions without
manipulating theirs,
and be dominated by
compassion instead of fear—
Galaxy
Quite frankly a little tired
of how much stamina I
have for shifting my
paradigms—
how long I can ride
the edge
of my realm
for overwhelm—
ah, I know
how to bask in the sun!
But I am tired of
being the moon
surrounded by
so much night—
Essence
Cupid shot me through the heart
and wanted to know if I was still bleeding,
so I said, Cupid, what kind of blood is this?
crash
i didn’t mean to sell my soul to the devil. the
words were mixed in the comic book, an
d i was playing them on my tongue, processing
them in my mind, producing them like a con
demned symphony. i asked my mom
how to get it back, but she said, shouldn’t
Busy These Days
Soft and small and
hard like something that’s
been whittled away to
their inner rock
Alphabet Ravine 