Christina Lachman graduated in 2009 with a BFA in Writing from Pratt Institute. While in school she interned with Belladonna reading series and press. Her poems have appeared in Pratt’s literary magazine, Ubiquitous, and in a self-published chapbook, This Brutal Fall. She lives in upstate New York, daily marveling at the natural beauty all around her.
Blossoms smelled like motor oil,
though the soil was friendly.
Sunlight was an experience around
the head, but only when it came
in slabs, in slants, through slats
and only as the ones with glasses
could see it, refracting into their brains.
Weeks before, our beliefs had turned
primitive; sun was dead and shrouded,
warm breezes were a shadow of the mind.
We looked at photos and said, remember that?
Remember that shade of green?
We stood in the cold kitchen, blowing eggs
out of their shells, willing to coo every
tree into budding, every ice-lake to melt.
Temple of Dusk
Only dancing is fit for this dark hillside,
no songs we sing on the city rooftops
allowed, they would profane this place;
no human speech at all, only twirling
in a too-large sweater, hands lost inside,
under this cloudy lowering sky,
a blue and grey universe unbound by
the circle of treetops wagging their fine
A light rushing of water and leaves
tease and tempt the brave into the thicket—
I’ll keep to this open field for now, homelights
blinking from the land of common reality.