Poetry - Issue 21 | October 2014

the ground unfurls

by Gabrielle

the ground unfurls

a country prostrate.

i look out as we move so slight, 

though i know it was ten miles

ago i began this thought: 

we are crossing over 

from the midwest to the east, 

the ragged geometry in vista 

to the urban water,

the lights it reflects 

and sunken cars it keeps. 

no one reports on these antipodes. 

the different rock their 

erosions bear. 

that there are poets 

who write only of algae

and the great lakes. 

angry dances that cause

a certain coastal cramp. a bother 

that makes some feel astray, 

even when they fold in

on themselves at night, 

knees into chest,

like we all did before birth.

crashing waves, 

the reflexive pleat

and undo.

About the author

Gabrielle Peterson is a poet and painter currently living in Chicago, Illinois. She recently received her BA at Carleton College, and has been published in Carleton’s literary magazine, The Manuscript, in addition to the premiere issue of the arts and literary publication, Chimes & Sirens. She has been writing for the past four years and plans to continue until she has nothing left to say.

More in the archive »