You are a hollow concrete wall,

stretching miles into the gray sky.

You are steady, unmovable,

perched on a plateau,


And I flourish in transformation.

I am lacy tendrils of running blue water

zig-zagging a dance down your barricade.

I am the shimmer in the distance,

small dust-cloud rising,

as the earth moves under your feet –

gorgeous earthquake.

It all transpired so quickly –

sweet caress to limp love-making.

My mind runs in slow circles,

meandering like creeping vines,

thorny growth,

sliding under my fingernails

and stowing deep in my memory.

I was always an eruption

and you were never shifting.

© Laura A. Lord, 2021

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for the prompt.

This Body

This body is a thing of beauty.

This body is the gorgeous stretch of scars

that link the pale, soft flesh of my chest.

This body has been home to babies I’ve held,

babies I’ve raised, babies I’ve loved,

babies I’ve lost…

babies I’ve grown and and nursed and passed on to arms that weren’t mine.

Babies I only see in photos, half a world away.

This body has been laid out like a map,

designed by callous hands and careful lips,

by affirmations,

by chance,

by acutely embedded wounds

and deep, diving devotion.

This body has been wrenched in two –

pulled slick and tight,

Pinned, irresistible rainbow prism light

caught in hands

massaged pink as rose quartz

and fingered bloody.

This body is divine.

This body is a holy trinity,

a come-to-Jesus,

a cool swallow of water,

grain of sugar on your tongue,

This body,

this body,

is mine.

© Laura A. Lord, 2021

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for the prompt.


I want to disentangle the image I see of me,

anger parked behind my teeth

like a tire on top of the curb –

the loud, gritty crunch

of asphalt enamel twisting under the weight of it,

crouched on the tip of my tongue,

a tile tiger propped against the wall,

an art deco mural: The Splendor of Rage.

from what you see:

busy weekend grocery store,

a mother with children in tow

directing traffic with tired hands,

reasoning with the list and the purse and the mommy-I-wants and

the squeaking wheel on the cart

that pulls like magic your eyes to mine,

curls of hair, unwashed, unbrushed

batter at yesterday’s mask

and you clear the air.

One long look from the tips of my work boots

to the emptiness in my eyes

and I see a light that could proposition a nun.

I see a light that could be the very death of this life.

I see a light that I know is temptation

and this isn’t a desert,

it’s a goddamn Food Lion.

And I am tempted.

I am wanted.

I am seen.

I am.

© Laura A. Lord, 2021

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for the prompt.


My memory is red wrapping paper

crinkled at the corners.

It has a tear in the side

where the glittering star

meets the tangle top prints of evergreens

and frosted snow.

My memory is bits and pieces

held together with tape.

It was wrapped by a child –

steaming mug of cocoa by their side

with three ice cubes, melting glaciers

bouncing off the marshmallows.

My memory scratches the backs of my hands –

wooly mitten remembering.

It crackles like a fireplace,

sends a shiver as fingertips across the base of my hair,

hot coal alms pouring from its mouth

into my waiting, empty hands.

© Laura A. Lord, 2020

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for the prompt.


Grief is a punch in the throat

while my lips are wrapped around my favorite piece of hard candy.

It’s the lump in my throat,

choke as the sugar melts,

pain in my chest,

stitch in my side.

I walked through the doorway.

My eyes touched briefly over the waddled-up blanket on the floor

and for the briefest of moments

I saw your shape –

serene curl of sleep.

You were there.

So, when the moment passed

I felt my heartbeat soft in my ears,

pulse behind my eyes


lowered to the spot you were.

I broke.

Grief is a punch in the throat

while I’m carrying a load of laundry.

It’s allowing the clothing to fall,

delicate debris,

at my feet.

It is my husband watching a voyage of pain

crawling up my face.

It is the surprise of falling to my knees,

keening into a white blanket,

wishing it were you.

© Laura A. Lord, 2020

Thank you MindLoveMisery for the prompt.


I can paint an impassioned trip down memory lane

as sunflowers growing with wild abandon along the windowsill.

I can pluck each charming bloom,

heavy-headed and bent to the dirt.

I can watch petals flutter down,

dark seeds embedding themselves deep for conscious growth.

I can lay my head down on fertile earth

and let the roots you’ve planted rock my memory to sleep.

I can rise as Venus

on the bathroom wall of some

hourly rate hotel room.

I can play my pulse,

straight from my wrist,

bright and loud.

I can drown in the beat

and slice my tender feet

on the glass in your garden.

I can leave a trail –

breadcrumbs to salivate over

and still,

I’d expect you to pull away,

black tires spinning

and vanishing over the horizon.

© Laura A. Lord, 2020

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for their prompt.

I can drowThan in the beat

and slice my tender feet

on the glass in your garden.

I can leave a trail –

breadcrumbs to salivate over

and still,

I’d expect you to pull away,

black tires spinning

and vanishing over the horizon.

The Weeping Mandolin

I am walking circles around our dining room table.

I am folding napkins and placing them,

just so,

beside each setting.

I am all jittery elbows and forced witty banter.

I feel his fingers slide down my shoulder –

some strapless thing I must tug back into place.

I am letting my thoughts skip

dancing along the frayed edge of our tablecloth

like a kitten, distracted, disregarding.

I am going to tell you tonight

that the man who filled this seat at our table,

that let your baby boy sign his name blind

to a contract for five years,

one head injury,

a lifetime of PTSD…

I am going to sit in the seat next to where he sat.

I am going to keep my eyes so low

I can count the grains of salt on the table.

I am going to tell you

I was locked in his bathroom.

That the sound of the metal scraping

as he picked the lock

is etched somewhere in the thin skin at my temple.

I am going to tell you that I can still hear his laugh

when my boyfriend called, trying to find me.

He laughed and I felt it shake through me.

I am going to tell you that the bathroom linoleum

had blue paisley flowers and they were pressed frozen against my cheek.

I am at our dining room table

“You’re going to ruin this for your brother.”

and dinner is getting cold.

“Why are you causing him trouble?”

And I am fragile as the neck of a weeping mandolin –

“You need to tell the truth and stop this.”

but you heard my song and cut my strings.

© Laura A. Lord, 2020

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for the prompt.


I caught a glimpse of my reflection –

grey and wet,

wavering in a puddle at my feet.

My limbs are carnival glass extended,

reaching for the edges of my shadow,

hanging from the summit of

Mount Reflection,

Mount Brooding,

Mount Who the Fuck Am I Today?

I’m ankle deep in pine needles.

They scratch little red lines in my skin

and sing little litanies in my therapist’s baritone:

“I feel loved and respected when you…”

“I say I love you when I…”

“I feel loved and respected when you…”

“I say I love you when I…”

I am tip-toe walking around the site of the explosion.

I keep getting the heels of my boots caught in the muck

and it pulls pain like lightning bolts through my calves.

It knocks me to my knees

and I’m face-to-face with my reflection again,

lip singing silently:

“I feel loved and respected when you…”

Listen, listen, listen.

“I say I love you when I…”

Sing, sing, sing.

© Laura A. Lord, 2020

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for the prompt.

Back Bent

The hoodoo woman drew my star map
like she was leaving a breadcrumb trail –
Hanzel and Gretel style directions for me
to see how every line between me
and you
was a unique scar
stretched across the space between an
Aquarius sun
and Scorpio’s moon.

I could pinpoint the exact moment
your touch picked me up,
lifted me from cardboard lost and found box
and placed me,
delicate dried flower,
upside down on your bedroom wall.

I think two becomes one is bullshit.
I think heart break and love go hand in hand
and I could be in critical condition –
ICU bed and a rhythmic beat background noise,
and you’d never switch up the technique –
hands on my wrists,
face in the pillow,
back bent,
mouth so far away
I cannot feel your breath,
way of loving me.

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for their prompt!

Star Sketch

I have sketched the stars
into the backs of my eyelids.
I have lain there, captured in the darkness –
one minute, hours, forever.
I have allowed the light to break softly,
little dust mote soldiers
marching under the weight of my faith,
carrying more lost images –

of you holding me in your arms in the shower,
blood running underneath our feet
and down the drain…
your fingers gently washing my hair.

I have sketched the stars
out of that moment
and when I need to remember that you love me,
I close my eyes
and bring it back.

Thank you to MindLoveMisery for the prompt.

Martyr May I

Her mouth opens, tight bow unraveling
and I see gold coins pouring between her teeth –
noisy offering that clangs and bounces off the peeled linoleum of my kitchen floor.
I watch them spin on thin-edged devotion,
skid to a halt at my feet.

I am ritual starved –
the ram in the temple.
Madonna eyes are following my every move.
They’re willing me to fold,
bend down and confess
as fingers scrabble for all the pieces,
umbilical cord phrases,
that make my stomachache
and my lips disappear against my teeth.

I melt back,
compel my genes to surrender,
kneel before the queen,
imitate the devout fetish that ministry has bludgeoned into my little orphan skull.

Her mouth closes,
and I will it open.
I will the words to bulldoze out between her teeth.
I will the light to glimmer across every golden turn of phrase
so I can stuff them in my pockets,
bury them in my uterine wall,
give birth to a surrogate god
who will light me up like a nuclear bomb…
who will sacrifice me before her eyes
and make me a martyr worthy.


© Laura A. Lord, 2020