Posts by lynlifshin

The Mad Girl Dreams of Houses Left Behind

By on Jan 6, 2019 in Featured, Poetry | Comments Off

in Segovia, in Alsace Lorrain. Last night she dreamt her old Maine house was up for sale and she was determined to buy it. Just when she’s letting go of everything that mattered, jewels she has no one to give to, no place to wear. Wind moves under the door. She remembers that morning standing under a dripping sign as fog eddied around her feet waiting for the bus, unsure how she ended up with this man she imagined going off somewhere far, feeling she should feel guilty about that as if it was the only life she...

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Wanting Not an Abstract Horse

By on Feb 3, 2018 in Poetry | Comments Off

but a flesh horse, his dark mane pressed to my forehead. Before the moon’s full, I want his solid body, a book of blood and breath. I need his ears to flatten against my ears. No, I wasn’t horse wild as a girl, didn’t die for statues and books though I painted a black stallion against a hot orange sky. It’s this horse I dream I sleep with, one that couldn’t, like a dog, take care of himself without me, this beauty already filling the space where I dream him, wait for him to become...

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In That Winter Meadow

By on Jan 21, 2018 in Poetry | Comments Off

clapboard sinks into its colorlessness. Pale drift- wood’s banked by leaves. The year fades with the frost. The last maples camouflage where there were deer tracks, leaves eddy around the new apple. Acorns carpet pewter stones. One patch of scarlet hangs on, blazes like a fire into darkness.

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The Mad Girl Remembers Leaving the Old Year Behind in Madrid

By on Nov 5, 2017 in Poetry | Comments Off

flamencos past the catacombs, gypsies past the monastery of cloistered monks. How little she supposed years past those days her hair hung past her wrists she’d ache for nights when it struck midnight and everyone who mattered to her would be a moat around her aloneness, wildly swallowing green grapes as the clock banged at each bell and cheers and sparkling white wine filled the ink blue air. Those dozen grapes gulped in the square, fast, faster to insure a good year to come. How she’d look for the smallest green grapes, giggling and swallowing for luck and love and then the...

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Late November

By on Dec 2, 2015 in Poetry | Comments Off

one minute, the sun was out, it was fall. Geraniums under a quilt last night, a             blotch of red opening. On the front step what looked like lint has small pink claws and feet. Next the sky was the color of lead.  Geraniums under a quilt last night like a child you’ve tucked in or a body wrapped in the earth under leaves. In the swirl of sudden snow, what was left of the headless fur blows west  Like a child you’ve tucked in whatever was living, a just born squirrel I suppose, hardly a living thing            ...

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