Lindsey Bellosa | Selected poems


One of you I willed into existence:

as though piecing together a dream—

mystery becoming science.


The other simply appeared:

pink lines like sun on the horizon—

a lazy afternoon, startled.


It doesn’t matter which is which.

Like sunsets or dreams, you both travel

beyond my mind’s grasp: too much


beauty for me to capture, or retain.

Creation is an artist; a mother

bears its miracles: dreamer, origin.


Nap Time

Underwear is strewn around me— Spiderman,

robots, cars.  I have played the Transformers

theme song on YouTube three times today;


I keep picking up your underwear and throwing it

into the laundry basket.  I keep boiling the kettle

and drinking more instant coffee.


I should be grading papers while you sleep, but I

write poetry.  I think about how fragile this time is,

how blue veins of your eyelids thread over your


sleeping, dreaming eyes.  How you probably dream

of Optimus Prime, or shooting webs from your fingers

while I shoot out my words, flimsy as they are,


trying (as everyone says) to capture this time because

it goes so fast.  Mothers aren’t superheroes; we just battle

evil and laundry and time, powered on coffee and naps.


A summer night

Uniforms sloughed off,

skin slick with grease

from our summer jobs.


The moon’s pooled reflection

spread around us: fireflies,

stars throbbed into the hot tub.


Night was an adventure: inky;

studded with heat.  The sun had weaved

its last light across the corn fields


and swooned into arms of sky

and your arms held me now: pale,

bare as the moon.   We were as young


as the night was long, with nothing to do

but fill space and water with our light;

the hollow of your throat buzzing—


pulse of cricket legs, wrapped

in underwater song: hot as the stars

that surely burned for us.








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