Laure-anne Bosselaar

English Flavors

I love to lick English the way I licked the hard Round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six Good conduct points on Sundays after mass. Love it when ‘plethora’, ‘indolence’, ‘damask’,

Look at this storm, the idiot, Pouring its heart out here, of all places, An industrial suburb on a Sunday, Soaking nothing but cinder-block And parking lots, wasting its breath on smokeless Smoke-stacks, not

Community Garden

I watch the man bend over his patch, A fat gunny sack at his feet. He combs the earth with his fingers, picks up pebbles around Tiny heads of sorrel. Clouds bruise in, clog

GARAGE SALE

I sold her bed for a song. A song of yearning like an orphan’s. Or the one knives carve into bread. But the un-broken bread Song too. For the song that rivers Sing to

The Worlds in this World

Doors were left open in heaven again: Drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages Around roofs and trees. Like wet flags, shutters Flap and fold. Even light is blown out of town, Its last

Dinner at the Who's Who

amidst swirling wine And flickers of silver guests quote Dante, Brecht, Kant and each other. I wait in the hall after not Powdering my nose, trying to re- Compose that woman who’ll graciously take