Lori Lamothe's third book, Kirlian Effect, is due out in in 2017 from FutureCycle Press. New poems are forthcoming this year in Cider Press Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, Ilanot Review, Redux and elsewhere. She lives in New England in an old Cape with her daughter, a red Siberian husky and precarious stacks of TBR piles.

Lori Lamothe

Three Poems

Garden Path with Chickens

after Gustav Klimt One's stopped mid-way to stare at something inside the colors. The other, at least partly on task, is almost there. There being, as always, a place too shadowed by distance to describe in much detail. That's the thing with beauty. Some days it can reach out from the sidelines and stumble you cold. If you're not vigilant it just might turn you away from forward for good. Truth be told, even chicken number one never reached his place in the shade — the painting hidden in the Austrian castle torched by SS troops on their march toward history. Witness hollyhocks, morning glory. Witness the painting, the leaves, the sun that some fine century will surely burn even its own light to the quick.

The Blue Tree

shines through the window each branch weighted with a universe of discount-store stars. In all honesty, it's nothing like that other year — me barreling home after another bad day armed with box upon box of red string lights, their demon eyes scaring off the neighbors and alarming the dog. No, this year's something wholly different, the tree more than a riff on sky, lake, sea — its shape a bell rippling from some unseen center. Witness the color of serenity burning steady in darkness. Note how the tree holds itself absolutely still at the eye of blue, how it waits for even the recycled tinsel to free itself from cliché and gleam in the room's snow-globe silence.


He would have been no more than the size of a sparrow, but no one knows the arc of his flight or if his kind flew at all. Even so, his chestnut fuzz caught the world for a moment in its own amber, in an idea of dinosaurs roaming the earth, bounding blue and crimson and canary yellow across uncharted possibilities — each one trailing ten-foot feathers monstrous enough to fill with dark ink but hollow just the same, as if we really could rewrite the history of survival from scratch — only this time in a softer octave, a watercolor blur of patterns lifting over the enormous, indelible cursive of so many species trampling toward extinction.

Lost & Found is published by Glass Poetry Press as part of Glass: A Journal of Poetry. This project publishes work that was accepted by journals that ceased publication before the work was released.
All contents © the author.