Ars Poetica
I hear the things
the star falls through,
the star that lives.
Some alphabet ended
and the star just
kept falling. I
stopped suggesting
heaven since it is
private, a purple
I could touch, touch
would mean nothing, or
something everyone
couldn’t see.
Letters burn and
blacken against falling
star, my shadow
feels with them,
the shadows between the letters
crackle and even
a heaven is listening.
the star falls through,
the star that lives.
Some alphabet ended
and the star just
kept falling. I
stopped suggesting
heaven since it is
private, a purple
I could touch, touch
would mean nothing, or
something everyone
couldn’t see.
Letters burn and
blacken against falling
star, my shadow
feels with them,
the shadows between the letters
crackle and even
a heaven is listening.
Interior
I don’t know how
many darknesses
are left, or how much
of the pain is
gone, considered
mystery or
other, against the
morning snow.
I thought soul or
words would save
me but I forgot about
the snow, how a
silence falls after
it, even in the heard
glitter of sun, even in
the day after. The
crystals try to erase
night from them-
selves but fail,
I try to touch
a hand like
doubt and
forgiveness inside
many unseens, some-
thing like light
hides it. When I
was word I
was weight, now
I am what does
not happen, except
upon snow
or breath,
confessor or
transfiguration, or
the pain that
remains. The sky
stretched with life
yields a clear
topaz face, a
year. O I, lost
beyond
hush, beyond what
follows past the
church window,
the gas
station, the
faith and the
snow, the fields
that say
blue.
many darknesses
are left, or how much
of the pain is
gone, considered
mystery or
other, against the
morning snow.
I thought soul or
words would save
me but I forgot about
the snow, how a
silence falls after
it, even in the heard
glitter of sun, even in
the day after. The
crystals try to erase
night from them-
selves but fail,
I try to touch
a hand like
doubt and
forgiveness inside
many unseens, some-
thing like light
hides it. When I
was word I
was weight, now
I am what does
not happen, except
upon snow
or breath,
confessor or
transfiguration, or
the pain that
remains. The sky
stretched with life
yields a clear
topaz face, a
year. O I, lost
beyond
hush, beyond what
follows past the
church window,
the gas
station, the
faith and the
snow, the fields
that say
blue.
About Lindsey Warren
Lindsey Warren is a graduate of Cornell University’s MFA program. She has been published in Rabid Oak, Josephine Quarterly, American Literary Review and Hobart, among others. Lindsey has been a finalist for the Delaware Literary Connection Prize and the Joy Harjo Prize.
