Rachel Lehrman

FALSE AWAKENINGS

A dull glow along the eastern horizon. Wild streaks of orange and pink hover just above. A sliver of

grayish blue lingers to the west as if it’s still night on the other side of the city.

You wake with a jump, kicking the wall. Your t-shirt clings to your back with sweat.

you don’t have to love what I love--

                                                            ~

Hawthorn. Holly. Birch. Blur into woods. Fields of grass and heather. Cows loosed for grazing, the wild

orchids caged for protection.

Time slows.

All around you the rustle of leaves sounds like a sea.

                                                            ~

grass gives way to pavement

houses clothing lines chicken noises

the patter of rain

alone in its forever,

one drawn out note on a flute--

as if one person’s truth

could be everyone’s

eyebrows fold into faces

each in its own spectrum of light--

                                                            ~

how closely do you look at me

and how much do you see?

in this soil, a thousand years

mulch, stones, the excrement of worms

rust red clay

a shard of flint

held once in the crook of a hand

washed clean

an arrow    a broken vessel

or maybe--

                                                            ~

an image cast 6 billion light years away

returns

the sun moves back to the centre

                                                            ~

arm out, then

up to sitting

a dull ache through the side of the neck

chandelier crystals

catch sun

wind chimes

car noises

a lone feather tangles in the grass

this moment is yours only

                                                            ~

as if you watch from a train window,

everything disappears

into the distance

existence without thought

just a little further

but then--

too late to be undone

                                                            ~

you wake inside the dream

then wake again

this is the air against your skin

                                                            ~

There is no way back or out. Just stairs and doors. One door. Glows in the incandescent light. You reach

for. Is not a door.    Is your hand. Clear glass.    Reflected.

you run, climbing–

you leap

THE TOMORROW OF FORGETTING

(deepening—)

everywhere I look or in my head there are words
there are words I tell you and they come and go like flashes of light
this is what you can be
if you try and if you listen
and if the dark thing speaks from deep inside
this is what it is to live in a body
and this is what they will make of us

(as in—)

as in the purple of violets and silverware and tables with patterned cloths
the vein beneath its skin thrumming towards the heart--
don’t you know   (they say)
don’t you know what happens
when two faiths
or fifths    or worlds collide?

(crossover—)

and...
and she only wanted a little
fire      blood      a temporary death
the blind man’s faltering hand, trodden-down passages
broken stones, the fallen
with their white eyes red
what will she choose?
what will we do?
what will become of this unity?

Rachel Lehrman is a poet, writer, artist and mother living in the idyllic UK village of Chorleywood. Her work has previously appeared in Blue Fifth Review, Shearsman Magazine, The Drunken Boat, Fire Magazine and Spiral Orb. She published her first chapbook Second Waking with Oystercatcher Press in 2009. Rachel's work is also featured in the anthologies Infinite Difference: Other Poetries by UK Women Poets (Shearsman 2010) and Sea Pie: A Shearsman Anthology of Oystercatcher Poetry (2012). She completed her MFA in Creative Writing Poetry at the University of Arizona and a practice-based PhD focusing on Collaborative Authorship in the Arts at Roehampton University (2009).