Poetry By Julia Haney

Poetry By Julia Haney

By Julia Haney

PIT STOP

the water spilled over the desk before anyone saw
or
before it even happened
—the imagination begins
at the edge
of the glass pitcher—

here, touch this:
bubbling skin
inspired pattern that
tested the space
pushed the night into the spiraling wishing well
of morning when
this drawer—numb to the touch—
i think the inside was a kind of subterranean plum,
a color that almost pleads to be thrown across
this undisturbed white, bird prints in snow,
goose skin.
sour.
take a sip.

Pear

Our exchange is unnoticed:
One pear falls.
It cannot hold,
cannot scream.
I would like to hold
all the fat pears,
re-sculpt their little
thick bodies. I do not think
they will notice.
They lie dumbly on paper
plates; they turn
their skinny pale bodies
upward to my blade.
The blade is cold, it sings the song
of late at night,
when the bodies are sliced thinner
and lie like butterflies
in the dish under heaps
of sugar, wading in lemon,
and are picked up
by fingers that shake, and put
them into the mouth sucking
the grains of sugar
like sand on the tongue.
The pear is still not sweet.


Poetry Readings

i understand why it is good to move slow,
stack neat lines,
remove the cork
tidy.
disciplined.


move too quick and
assonance mushes
puddly connections
flicker, losing the object,
the speaker stands speckled in salvia,
hunched and
misunderstood.
which could be considered unfair,
if that were the point—

in this blackened soles slapping
stamping out stories in layers like
some mechanized oath to poet
we’re always just
here
we’re never waking.



Julia Haney is currently living, writing in San Francisco. She developing an arts and literature magazine called Thalia, featuring content produced exclusively by women and publishing a small book of poems and art.

She hopes that her poetry provides the necessary space for any reader to read her unique perspective into these poems, so that they change form with each new set of eyes.

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