March 27, 2019

March 27, 2019


Two Poems

by Lindsey Warren

Still Life with South Harrison Street

The lily
over Wilmington
full of all
body comes down
to light, to

turn and be
light, it smells
like a sea I
keep hearing,
it touches my

tongue, melts
through it.
What other news
have I heard.
The rain hides

near where some-
one died, blue
carries in it news
of green, it could be
storm but clouds now

say no grace, see us
all as
water. What did I
do to the
light. What did I do

when I tasted it
and said it
was good. What
did I do to words
when I uttered

them against a
complete air, like a god
who makes things
worse, in a city whose
lily-flesh disappears
through rain?

Terce, Sext, None: 1211 Sycamore Avenue

At the corner was
a hole I kept digging, kept
giving away, serving the streetlamp
my favorite picture book open
to a page of calligraphy-clear
sky. When I was dusk
I stepped in me,
or did I step in me when
I was the thought
that the ants on the curb needed to be saved
from the latest Great Flood, the one
expected before bedtime, the worry
needling its grief
into the page of light
that was my homework, the light
that stood up,
engulfed the room,
the air still a little wet at the bus stop near
the yellow leaf on the sidewalk,
the yellow morning on the frost,
the yellow dust on the moon.


Lindsey Warren is a recent graduate of Cornell University’s MFA Program. She has been published in Rubbertop Review, Marathon Review, GASHER Journal, Josephine Quarterly, American Literary Review, and Hobart, among others. Lindsey is the recipient of a Delaware Division of the Arts Fellowship and has been a finalist for the Delaware Literary Connection Prize and Joy Harjo Prize. A poem of hers is in the anthology What Keeps Us Here: Songs from the Other Side of Trauma. She splits her time between Ithaca, New York and Newark, Delaware.