We feel lucky in moments we’ve survived the heart
saved the whole whale: oil, fire.
We build a tent out of bones
the red red red of shadow inside a canyon
keeping us close enough
though our desires scream: splitter.
An equal love spreads over the tongue
holding us down; guiding us back.
We hold our teeth inside our mouths
careful not to push too hard on wisdom: oil, fire.
Sleepless nights. Aching stomachs.
Skin too new to stretch.
Haley Lasché has her MFA from Hamline University. Her poems and essays have appeared in lit mags and anthologies such Not a Muse, Poemeleon, The Crab Creek Review, The Furnace Review, etc. She has performed them in art galleries, bookstores, on top of bars and in friends’ living rooms. In addition to writing, she is a college instructor, a postmodern dancer and a punk-rock fashion model.
