Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Julie Fisher

Quija Board

I could be the wine left on your lips.
You might be the urge of my planchette.
I trace the edge of your scar
in the dusk of my daydream.
Behind your gaze I glimpse your dervish
contained by centrifuge of will.
It’s this whir under your voice
that whisks me near you.
It’s your blur I want to decipher.
Pour me into your goblet
I will just barely lay
my fingers on your surface.

* * *



Dad often tells me
he drinks
because life is boring.

I suspect it is why
he waits.
His thigh tumor
is tangerine-sized
when he has it


Surgeons remove three
of his quadriceps.
In rehab he begs me
not to unwrap
his latest painting
before we burn it.


A slow somersault
of breast feather
kisses yellow line.

I glance backwards
to a hawk corpse
in the zipper of traffic.

I lift the warm red tail
away from worn asphalt
to a clutch of twigs
like Dad’s wasted legs.

* * *

Julie Fisher instigates communal literary experiences at LitMore, Baltimore’s Literary Arts Center (, which she founded and manages. Her chapbook Skittering Thing was published by Furniture Press Books. She believes in magical beings and sacred places. In her bones, she knows we create ourselves as we tell our stories.

1 comment: