Poetry - Issue 20 | May 2014

Two Poems by Laurie Byro


Dream Working

My sister knitted me Spain. Your face in a moon-lit
window, the eyes of women hidden in olive trees.
The hours pass. We sit cross-legged on a blanket,

the country spreading around us in each blood-dust
stitch she knits. The shedding red matador ribbons,
the fringe as she turns the corner never dropping us,

you throwing back your healthy blood-kissed neck
to laugh. I ask for a terracotta forest, a clay brown
shirt; you hand me a frayed rope, a goat to lead me

up a spilling mountain path. My sister knitted me
Picasso bones and teeth, curly-forest sleep, your
brown-fern hair, the frets on your blue guitar

as the train’s tracks wed your hands. I want to be
married to slowness, the watchful minutes as we
disentangle logy lies, legs that can’t get up and leave.

Shadows that could make Plato’s creatures breathe.
The dark fact of me loved or not. You are miles gone,
coaxing me back into a reflection off train windows.

We miss the plaintive lowing of cave animals that hide
in yellow dust.  My sister knits in a language
that will end with my telling.

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About the author

Laurie Byro’s short stories and poetry draw on myth, fairytale and her experiences of foreign places in the years she worked as a travel agent. Published widely in literary journals such as Autumn Sky Poetry, Loch Raven Review, and Stirring, her work has been featured on The Guardian’s online workshop and has placed favorably in the Interboard Poetry Competitions. Laurie is head of circulation at a library in New Jersey where she facilitates a poetry circle.

 

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