by Lizzy Burnam
Bellingham, WA
Where even the trees weep and the curious keep their heads down. Here, I am a knot.
Fingers sucked into a nimbus cloud,
thighs pinched open by seagulls.
I pick at the loose ends, too slick with rain to untangle and pull tighter instead.
Santa Fe, NM
Where the wind chokes and the clocks hang over.
Here, I am a map.
A dotted line drawn from my center of gravity
to the rosy peaks at dawn.
The Other Side is bright and distant,
spines and valleys smoothed over by the morning sun.
Burlington, VT
Where the red lights blink, a night dream deep as a lake. Here, I am a two-faced mask.
Tragedy, comedy, the same face with a different mouth. I run up and down the
concrete staircase
a million times,
too scared to open a single door.
Syracuse, NY
Where the big rock booms through trespassing signs. Here, I am nobody. Who are
you?
The first poem I ever read was a secret.
Like the boogieman, it held the mattress up
so I could squeeze into shadows.
They’d banish us, you know.
There are no words for what I’ve tried to forget
Lizzy Burnam (she/her) is a writer currently based in the Pacific Northwest with her partner and many half-read books. She believes in whimsy, nonsense, love, hope, and revelry. Her poems and articles have appeared in publications like The Raven Chronicles Journal, Coffin Bell, Introvert Dear, and more.