Leigh Anne Hornfeldt

Pulled Under 

Ask me why I’ve never learned to swim. 
I’ll tell you water is a liar. Flattened 
on my honeymoon with a lung
of salt water. Even my dreams trick 
me like a soft lullaby. I prefer sky. 
Maybe because it’s always there, 
even behind clouds. The sun warms 
my back,  even now, despite all the shit 
I’ve done. Undeserving as I am. 

Last night I dreamt
water again, O great faithless mirror
that loves me and loves me and loves me
into abyss. 


Beyond the One I Knew

As a child space documentaries made me feel safest. 
In that time of not growing, stagnant station, 
it was a galaxy swallowing another that gave me hope. 
If things were real bad, when the deepness felt
too far, there were always 
supernovas for relief, black holes
for peace. When I was old enough
to realize that star stuff
was poised behind sky it was game over. 
I wanted to absolve gravity 
of its tired hold and slowly lift one toe 
at a time, float past the stratosphere, 
into the raging paradise beyond the one I knew. 


Darkness to Clean Bone   

Tonight groans under
late October’s moon, no matter
the rainstorm wishes tucked 
in her sleeves. She worked 
the garden, her sister swirling up
behind the sheets on the line. 

Dusk understands mystery isn’t 
thick nights and valleys, 
how she should’ve waited 
for the darkness to clean bone. The way 
all nights are written 
till all that’s left is sun, 
a wound not yet grown over. 
If the sky has any place in this 
let it be between palms
that once belonged to the ground.
Let it be carved 
out of memory 
and moonlight. 


Leigh Anne Hornfeldt, a Kentucky native, is the author of Fleshed (Winged City 2016), East Main Aviary (Flutter Press 2012) and The Intimacy Archive (ELJ 2013). She is the editor at Two of Cups Press and a recipient of a grant from the Kentucky Foundation for Women. Her work has appeared in journals such as Spry, Lunch Ticket, Foundling Review, and The Journal of Kentucky Studies.


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