Poetry

Author Feature: Select Poems by Lache S.

Haikus of Finding Lost

lost in a forest
for the last 5 hours
meditations with trees

women exhale smoke in Spain
step over glass on Irish streets
Where do I fly next?

reading Lorde alone
in the black night silence
laundry spins in the machine

188 days backpacking
2 more remain
lover reclines in room
Safe Room

I wish I had a person who was a safe room,
not a tick clumsily removed, embedded limbs
that never dissolve, forcing me to pull on skin,
stare at an inflamed red that persistently
flares despite lemon balm tinctures + prayer.

Poor Little Rich Girl

When you pick up a shirt in the store
that I’m sure you don’t need, I think
about what I’d spend that 15€ on:
butter (there’s only a small chunk
left lying in the crumpled wrapper,
rationed too carelessly; bread (is rice
cheaper?); a different kind of tea
so I’d have three (well, guess I am
sort of a high-maintenance gal).
Sometimes I wish I could ask mom
a serious question, why she married
dad. Did she always feel destined
for different? But then, she and I,
we don’t really pull our weight. Did
she despise herself, too, in the egg
aisle, carrying thoughts like these?
He Asks Me What I Want

Endless bowls of summer strawberries
swathed in Greek yogurt, none of this
rationing for 7-8 berries, purchasing
one crate at a time. Summer will end!
(Yes, I get I don’t contribute.) But I want

my minimalist-high-quality stainless
steel pot for boiling rice (that I will buy
as soon as my university pays me next
month), stainless steel pan + spatula,
my spices, teas, and oils for vegetarian

concoctions. This half-fridge is fine,
that is, if it's just me, which is not really
what he wants to hear; but if I did win
the lottery, our question to each other,
I might live by myself, be a spiny spinster

with perfectly arranged wild snake plants
cleansing the air, receiving lovers when
I wanted, retreat in refuge the rest of my days.
Lonely for the absence of hands on thighs,
but sustained knowing all decisions are mine.
I Took Your Parking Space

even though, honestly, you'd have to
perform a magnificent feat of steering and time
to make this not mine.

As I sit here, warm from the cold Christmas air,
sipping my organic nut milk,
I make a holiday wish:
this is not your destination
that you forget the color of my car
find the perfect parking spot
that someone hands you a cold-pressed juice for free,
you find yoga pants on sale,

so I can stop looking out the window
at my violet blue Honda with Oklahoma license plate
because you know exactly where I parked.

Excursion to Town

Self-loathing. Disgust.
A food walk with small-bites: artisan cheeses,
blocks of fancy fudge, tiny spigots of fair trade coffee:
how many calories was that?! Sattvic
aspirations demolished in a dozen minutes
of my desire.
What will reverse this binge?

Monks say the past does not exist,
but my paunch says differently. How dare
it refuse to submit to the Now.

Another beer sample,
then to home where I will hide,
letting the hour, the sleepless night
absorb the poisons that are spreading to my mind.

Who is to blame?!
What is the actual problem?

The gods were wrong.
My soul wasn't ready for freedom.

Photo by Byron Johnson on Unsplash