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Alyson Lucas
Poetry, I’ll catch your hurt and staghorn it into branches
Dabs of sunlight melt butter fresh / geese pebble the water in webbed epithets / squishy sponge
slabs of algae bump into each other like shored ships / four girls was a gift / bike grease smeared
on my pant leg—oil on my jaw and cheek / turns out city flies have teeth / she comes back to say
hello on the puckered lips of orange flowers / cicadas hum songs to tree puddles / I tuck a ginkgo
leaf into my pocket / and save a bit of this gentle for tomorrow.
Alyson Lucas is a writer from Camarillo, California. She currently lives in Uptown, Chicago. When she’s not working or writing, you can catch her rounding city corners on her beloved bicycle, Beowulf.
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