Leaves are lace
shadows through windows,
leaving me a shutter
unhinged from time,
from body,
etched more vividly
into memory
than my own face.
A leave of absence
from permanence,
I belong nowhere
but to leaves.
Miss Bunny
scampered out
the open door,
an echo
whooshing through
the undergrowth.
What is celery
compared to
calls of other
rabbits?
I cannot
bear to lose
another pet
to wild desires.
I’ll replace her
with a rock
beneath
the willow tree.
When the tall grass
sways in wind,
I’ll see a
twitching nose.
Loose Head
I am a loose-head loskop,
a head that floats
above my shoulders,
a helium brain,
an airhead.
I can’t find the tethers
to hold myself in place.
I know I put them
somewhere that I thought
I’d not forget.
But now I have forgotten
what I thought
I should recall.
By the time I think
it’s crucial,
it won’t matter anymore.
Nolcha Fox has written all her life,
starting with poop and crayons on the walls. Her poems have been published in Lothlorien
Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen and
others. Her chapbook, “My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats,” is available on Amazon.
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