Leslee Rene Wright


by Leslee Rene Wright

A landscape can go woozy
with neglect. Barns slump
over, ball gowns absent
the bride, sheltered by sand
pines too bored to be rabid.

The horizon hosts a bare-bones picnic,
a muddle of broad, brown cloth,
weeds lashing at the leftovers,
hillsides picked over for gold
and all the trimmings, oil and ore
and more. A dribble of river

drifts the fish to no-man’s land,
no hooks, no nets to heave home.
It longs for strict scaffolding,
a deep cut of canyon where
it might finally be whittled
to fine white surge, a rival
for the trains that blow open

the dark, sweeping doors
from their moorings, shingles
quaking over church bells
whose silver tongues rustle
apart a town made of paper, streets
sifting on fractured ice.

Frigid wasps muddle the windowsill,
dazed as they try to probe
their way into a house that gasps
and hangs like a husk, a hollow
breast in a famished hand.

Leslee Rene WrightLeslee Rene Wright lives and teaches in Denver, Colorado, but spent several years in the heart of Nebraska. Her poems and stories have appeared in Necessary Fiction, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place, Prick of the Spindle, Crab Creek Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, and others.

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