Two Poems

 

Storm

The clouds drifted until you were above my roof,
humming off-key, spitting air because you don’t know how to whistle.
I’ll suck the life out of you, then send it back with dog-eared corners,
pointing out the places you could have been without me.
See how lonely those places are,
how barren and unsafe to walk through with bare feet.

 

Shrine

This is when the bough breaks,
when the rag thirsts long after you’ve kept twisting,
when the oven stays on all night.

You are the reflection in the mirror,
the caretaker who leaves the man-child in the bath,
assuming he knows how to get out.

When you find him in the morning,
shivering like your conscience,
you ask why he couldn’t dry himself.

If the Lord only gives us what we can handle,
then you are no god. You free beasts from the zoo,
even if they cannot hunt. This is not an accusation.

It’s a reminder to know your place.
The next time you take silence as consent,
a whirlwind “no” will bowl you into the ocean.

This warning is not just for lovers, but also family.
The blood that has taught me conditional love.

This is when the bough breaks,
when the rag thirsts long after you’ve kept twisting,
when the oven stays on all night.

 

Lauren Yates is from Oceanside, CA, but currently lives in Philadelphia. She is a recent graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, where she majored in Creative Writing. She also directed Penn’s premier performance poetry collective The Excelano Project. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Emerge, Eunoia, Marco Polo, Melusine, The Bakery, and The Legendary.