top of page
Screen Shot 2021-10-28 at 12.56.21 PM.png

5-20-2020

Laure-Anne Bosselar

 

THE NIGHT GARDEN

 

 

Because everything you learned from the stained

                        glass windows you knelt under

still remains thorned & stained & torn,

 

& all the teachings you were expected

                         to believe still leave you dis-

believing & you wish this were not so,

 

& because one sparrow’s chirp can pour

                        gratitude into you like a drought-

dazzling rain, & you’d much rather

 

kneel for that — & you do,

 

there’s something appeased in the way you

                        get up again & brush the dirt

from your knees — that modest

 

dirt that belongs to no one & is yours so entirely

 

in this small lot — hedged, hidden,

                   with its offerings of fruit

& shade & song. So that later,

 

when evening brumes embrace all

                   you just praised,

you slip back into the night garden

 

to be blessed that way too.

I FORGET TO LISTEN 

        

 

         to the silence after the rain —

 

or to that particular silence,     

 

                            like a

                   held

                             breath,      

 

when the wind 

 

leaves —

         or dies.

 

 

 

To the silence after a slammed door.

 

Or telephone’s last

 

unanswered

 

ring.

 

        

Oh, how I forget to listen to you —

 

to the silence in you, friend.  

 

I make such noise,

 

such noise,

 

         that I can’t hear the silence in you.

ON MY WALK TO THE HOSPITAL, DEATH

 

 

There it was,

                   mired in the mess of syringes

         & Styrofoam that the homeless left

under an old, hunchbacked oak.

                  

Death in the fog, all silver

                   & grisaille as it wreathes

& muffles children in the park.

 

I saw it

         in the needle, deep in the back

                   of his hand. My love’s.

                   Fentanyl dripping

                            no

                            pain

                            no

                            pain

                            no

         in his vein.

 

                                            Death in the still-life

         the ward’s window reflected:

                   an old woman bent over

her husband, her hand on his heart.

 

I saw it.  It faced us —

                            nonchalant —

              there, at the foot of the bed

whistling softly through its teeth.

-from These Many Rooms, Four Way Books (2019), selected by POW Spring Guest Editor, Luke Johnson

LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR is the author of The Hour Between Dog and Wolf , of Small Gods of Grief, which won the Isabella Gardner Prize for Poetry, and of A New Hunger selected as a Notable Book by the American Library Association.  With her husband Kurt Brown, she translated a book by Flemish poet, Herman de Coninck: The Plural of Happiness. The recipient of a Pushcart Prize, and the editor of four anthologies, she taught at Emerson College, Sarah Lawrence College, UCSB, and is a member of the core faculty at the Solstice Low Residency MFA in Creative Writing Program. Her fourth book, These Many Rooms, came out from Four Way Books in 2019.

bottom of page