2 Poems by Stacy Harrison


Whatever cold comfort you can offer me is better than
this empty cup or those branches shaking arthritic
fingers at the cracks of our chapped foreheads.

The sidewalks aren’t twinkling anymore.
The bells are all rung out.

Your fingers, cool and thin, but steady,
leave my neck, reach for the bottle
beside you on the splintered bench.
Tipping it toward me, you raise your eyebrows.
I look away.

Tomorrow, maybe.

But we’ll never leave this tundra behind,
too much of us buried here, bled-out beneath a sky so cold
it trembles, an air so deep its stillness pounds my ears.

We both want that last pull of whiskey but refuse to rob it
from each other. That’s been done already.
The bottle, between us now, a weathered kaleidoscope
holding the last bright fragment, there for the taking.

Your fingers grasp a stick, scratch some letters
in the crusty snow – an E, I think, maybe an S,
and when the stick breaks, you pull back,
whip it through the aching wind with
the sound of a jet plane,
and then silence, empty hands,
my neck still bare.

That whiskey, I want, and those bells I want, those fingers.
A song, a look, anything, really.
The taste of a fresh snowball,
a bloodied lip.


“Bloody Creative Types at It Again” image by Flickr user Rhiannon Adam


I don’t think about sunlight much any
more. Of church choirs, or the way
the water in the channel between Lake Mary
and Lake Louise swirls brightly at my feet.

I don’t think about the wobbly
kitchen stool. Carole King on the record player,
Mom’s fingers in my hair.
Of stains in the ceramic sink,
Suave bubbles swirling down the drain.

I don’t think about liberty.
Of gravel roads and gritty lips,
the reed grass at Bergen’s Backwaters.
Of shifting slate beneath bare feet,
voices blending into something
resembling a song.

I don’t think of half-moonlight on bare thighs,
a dented pick-up crowned with KC’s,
eight-ball shifter in my suntanned back.

I don’t think about ashes.

Easy burn of clove and Virgo,
glow of dewy shoulders.
Heady sip of nightfall, spell of heaven
at the dam off 557.

StacyStacy Harrison lives in the Upper Michigan with her husband, three sons, and an 80-pound Goldendoodle who wasn’t supposed to shed.  She enjoys reading and writing non-fiction, primarily to-do lists and grocery lists. Stacy is adept at driving motorcycles, minivans, and bicycle trailers full of boys. She is also an experienced wrestling referee (Living Room Floor Federation) and certified yoga instructor. Stacy is a regular contributor at Her View From Home (herviewfromhome.com), and blogs at Revisions of Grandeur (revisionsofgrandeur.wordpress.com).