Two Poems

Laura Henriksen

Finally I was part of the miracle

exiting the cellar mid-tornado, unafraid. 

Wrapped everything I own in cellophane 

and wax until it was a death mask of itself 

and my life. Now I can say 

I am prepared. All roads

are hard roads unless you 

find yourself the treat swallowed 

by the more or less patient night sky,

the more or less plaintive phone voice. 

When you love someone you’re supposed to

love them forever. When you go soft

anarchy, summer rain, cow heart. A girl

in a T-shirt that says “I’m young every time

I look” is waiting at an airport. But for what.

From here it’s all yesterday’s

parties and finger food, the golden

age of amateurs returned. The only

thing I will agree is classic is someone

else’s cherry chapstick. Did you spend

the night in the castle? Are you saving

it for later? Please see that my grave

has my name on it in bubble letters.

You are the mountain on which I take

the train with a little present in my

lap for everyone I know. Strange 

the allure of the green water’s 

gesture when you know it would

just swallow you up, promise Darling

you can have it, take a sip from the

algae chalice. At the bottom I explain

I came here to be part of the panorama

and because I thought there would be

free drinks. Any side is the other side

of something, breath hot on the mirror,

and cold in the tunnel, the deluge of 

tomorrow’s mellow chamber pop

already humming at the dam.

Laura Henriksen is the author of October Poems (Gloss, 2019), Canadian Girlfriends (THERETHEN, 2019), Agata (Imp, 2017), and Fluid Arrangements (Planthouse Gallery, 2018) with Beka Goedde. Her writing can be found in The Brooklyn Rail, LitHub, P-Queue, Foundry, High Noon, and other places.