“and even you forgot those brilliant flashes seen from afar” -Ruth Stone


Two tough three-eared deer
on the climb up to Lake Alice:
they think my baby brother
is my man.
                 like a drone
                 over the canyon—
                 I can’t whistle
                 for the dog.
                 I can’t whistle.


                 after Czesław Miłosz

A day so happy: I was in the world.
You were there in the world—
there was no bombast. Whatever

was austere, I couldn’t recall.
I was my name. In my name
there was no world.

Recall me, my austere chair.
I know your name; I phone
your phone.


Mackerel sky
over our beach— to squint
is to be like all the others.

Electric blue. I expect two yolks
per egg forevermore, & I think
of your striding—

the leaves are profuse,
excessive. Who actually fucks
& who benefits? Psychic’s

awning: PAST,
PRESENT & FUTURE— I was wrong.
In the dream

you’d gotten out of prison.
We watched the launching
of a rocket.


it’s a welt itself my flag
          the tragic mouse under my heel
                     locked out on the roof it’s still
                                night’s gross bells night’s violet seal

Appears in this issue

Liza Kotlar is the author of HAIL (Wonder 2023). Their poetry has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Sarka, et al, & is forthcoming in Fence. They live & work in New York City.

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