Here's a poem by my first poetry writing teacher/mentor, Laurie Lamon.


we marveled
at the bathroom tile and the retractable
clothesline, the bedroom window’s iron grille

whose nails, driven into brick, had pulled
loose and held through decades
of rust and wind, world wars, a thousand

thousand burning sunset hours. We watched
dusk flame against the window ledge
where our sack of cold food stayed cold,

and where the pigeons we named Edward
and Sophia had basked, their pearl-gray breasts
pulsing with the ordinary blood

of mates alighting in a narrow space
inside a view’s corridor—wind and cage of wind
swung above the street like a painting on a nail.

Unsettled, they carried upward
their feathers’ ladders of dirt and air, and met
the evening’s narrow cross-hatched

winds, their bodies laden with the small exegeses
we imagined to be thirst and hunger,
hunger and gladness.

We had turned our chairs to watch through flecks
of paint and faded fingerprints the street,
the rooms across from us—in daylight, a woman’s back,

a blue-white hinge of desk and window,
the sweater draped across a chair
and falling earthward—an abundant, pale yellow.

Laurie Lamon
from Without Wings

Support a poet and poetry! Click here to purchase Without Wings from CavanKerry Press.

Here are links to other poems of Laurie's posted at Against Oblivion:

"Bird Call, Wave"
"Prime Number"