Laurie Kolp

Three poems

Pensacola, Florida

Trudging through white sand
I don’t notice the small indent
until my toe sinks into it—
a seabird’s nest holding hatchlings
the size of dandelion seed pods
one wishes upon when one
stumbles upon one.
A barking “yip” from above
alerts me: a circling bird
with an odd reddish-blackish beak
like my pug’s underbite
when he’s dug a hole beneath
the fence and gets caught, his snort
and pouty lip wishing for
forgiveness, his eyes like the black
skimmer looking down on me.



Stranger in My Home

Inside these walls,
still water kills
scalloped waves.

Unexpected hushes
rush my eyes outside
where a blue heron waits.

You cannot embrace
awareness, a change
I cannot face

this hollow grave
filled sedate
as if we never met.

Will I escape
the chambers
of this strangeness?

I caress your
calloused hands
and am overcome

with memories
of lingering clinks, motor
hums from yesterday

it seems, the years
your mechanic hands
kept me afloat.

And now it’s me
helping you even though
you don’t know who I am.



Forgiving Myself

Tonight, I fall asleep uncovered,
a sleep so deep I hear you
call my name and say hello.
Your words flow through me
pure as purest silk, loop to loop.
Our hands entwine.
A vague conundrum waves
through the aura you emit.
I wonder if your whisper
is my imagination,
your words persuasion
through a dream,
your essence chills.
You answer through my tears.
You say I must find a way
to let it go, find a way
to forgive myself.
Overtaken by an ache
I can’t explain
drifting in the space
between us,
drifting to acceptance
I have no other choice
than to believe
that you are here.



Laurie Kolp is the author of the complete poetry collection, Upon the Blue Couch, and chapbook, Hello, It’s Your Mother. Her publications include Southern Poetry Anthology VIII: Texas, Stirring, Rust + Moth, Whale Road Review, Front Porch Journal, and more. Laurie lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, three children and two dogs.



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