top of page


Lucy Johnson

Barren, I see the cattail leaves, 

death whitens  

into the open mouth of the moon-tin; you will desert me 

soon enough, I know; the sun buckles 

in red koi flashes of light, smuggling nothings 

in my poetry; you don’t get to speak for me, 

but I draw it out anyway. I don’t even know your voice anymore, 

it’s as if I made it up, 

and you’re just living in your plow grave, 

mindlessness, madness, dying empathy 

I’ve forgotten you well, 

even in midnight hours as I cry, 

it’s not enough to know the circuity  

in honesty, or rather, is it yet another wound 

or does it still twist against my veins? The flower 

in my hands is a thief, like you. 

Fall 2022

bottom of page