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Lindsay Illich

Afternoon

Under you, an opportunity.
Maybe wings. Something sparrow-
like and saw-toothed. It’s the terrible

trick you play with your hands
deseeding an avocado—
slamming in, then a turn.

In shades, the touching.
Kindness a kind of beam
you light up the dark insides

of my body with. Light
as a gesture. Countenance
as lift and blade.

I don’t need to be under you
to feel it.


Explain to Me

Whether like light
we are waves or particles.

Either way, broken
but still shining
through windows,
from a space of heavenly bodies.

At night, flashed
effulgent,
a zag of lightning.

Or then again maybe like
lightning bugs
fluorescing in entropy,
tripped by some hand
that won't turn us off.


Trimming Your New Beard

With grandmother's
gold-handled
shears, having not
attended your body
since you were just
a little kid,
and the sound of the scissors
so regular
and ordinary
like I think love should be
everyday. Brother,
there are no
words for this.


Lindsay Illich holds a Ph.D. in English from Texas A&M University and teaches writing at Curry College in Milton, MA.  Her work has appeared in Clare Literary Journal, Gulf Coast, Rio Grande Review, The Coachella Review, and Texas Poetry Journal. Her email address is lindsay_illich@hotmail.com.