LAUREN EGGERT-CROWE


 

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Collaboration with Lisa Ciccarello #1

Skin brightening in the hard crush, in the become too easy to know. With this cloud, these choices. No good options but to be beautiful in it. Another word for softly moving is the right to walk through. Sun-white concrete, that's where we take it when we talk, all the way to the lens flare. It isn't a command that makes the shutter contract. It isn't that same old walk and walk and walk. Heel sinks into sand, the line corrected. Says spiral, pull out what pulls in that first case, all the sure-fire slipping away. The letter come to replace the handshake. A windmill up, tailbone directed to crown—yes gem. This collection of beloved spines – a scarf in the wind – curved that way. Did it fall over the face was it soft was it all waterfall hair, oh jealousy come over. This is the far-off it's come to. Where do we go back to for what's going to be next, where do we say divide when we mean divine.

Originally appeared in We Are So Happy To Know Something, 2011



Collaboration with Lisa Ciccarello #2

I'll want you something succulent; sparrow in me. Even the heat is heavy with heat; wants to make everything its own. The clavicle, such slender corset, becomes like philosophy: anterior.  When I say desert girl, I mean I never want the rain to stop licking my roof with its tin questions. I mean I don't like this. The animals breathe all day but none of them lift. Sewn into the sun are five feathers that slip their knots at night. Night calls them to house beads in their hearts, quill and opal. Morning calls his moonburnt hulls, oh daughter, back to the stick-house; dutifully they return. Their arms time-heavy, their ironwood secrets. Each burns her name on a plate of clay. Sometimes they light the match alone and no one brings the water. Decipher the letters & they chime. In your mouth the ash chills -- you charcoal your voice. It burns for hours, but the word is never obliterated.

Originally appeared in Eleven Eleven, 2011

 


Collaboration with Lisa Ciccarello #3

Tonight is iron bells. We lie on the grass and look at the cracks, each one a crevice of light. They make the night ring out of tune. This is the last bed we will share. I touch places on your skin that sound chords, I forgot the key. Neither wants the dark search. I'm already thinking instead. At night, my arm on your shoulder like a cold ghost; or; try to warm the skin with echoes. Hollow trunk, full throat, sound of strings wrapped around a peg, you are taut, your heart is taut. Lies singing in the dark, lies like bells that turn black in the rain, whose drops catch in your eyelashes and let go. When you speak you turn the key in the black bell, you send sound through a hole shaped nothing like a hole.

Originally appeared in Eleven Eleven, 2011

 


Collaboration with Lisa Ciccarello #4

The open mouth in this moment. In the appetite, the hand is hidden. And in the hand, the glass. In the glass, the upside-down face. Your lifted wrist pours me between your lips. But I am still not emptied of secrets. Who was your first love; the letter becomes and cannot un-become. Every lake is a secret hole; the lake itself is the secret. The lock is tight. The loss is locked. Fall's sunlight a kind of undoing. You get the wrong idea. How we dress it & then we take it apart. The dark leaves shameful with chlorophyll: scent of a wanted kiss, even decades after. A charred branch, a palm full of ash. Sap in the fire hisses yes yes. To repeat this song you made for me: We remove the sun. We remove the mouth of the glass & the rim of the shore. You curved your spine as if to say ruins can be illuminating. Everything is coming down. At the very edge of your voice. The fall from here

Originally appeared in Ping Pong, 2011