Clara Burghelea’s featured poet, Elliott Freeman


Raze // Raise




Lift up, like a well-aired veil, the worries and the seizing moments. 
Your head is not a thundercloud. The patio, the rocking chair, the lemonade— 


rain only spoils paperbacks and electronics. Everyone has shoulder blades
that join and pivot, twin ridges that could have been anchor points 


for a twenty-foot rainbow-feather wingspan. When it’s wet and cold
and the earth gives up its richness, anyone can slip into the crawlspace


of an old song, something acoustic. If need be, build a duplex
inside your chest—the personal and the meant-to-be-shared. 


Make a fire pit for sins. They don’t burn, not really, but they dazzle,
shedding white sparks like forks in a microwave. Cast your tongue


like a fishing line to rain drops and snowflakes. Dirty up your hands
and grow a garden where the winter chapped your skin. 


Remember, or learn, that the body wants so desperately to live.


Half Measures




When I’m waiting for you, I tie a snapdragon
around the horizon, as if a little link of stem


could anchor down the sun. How small,
these spells: Leave the coffee cup 


unfinished. Make a second portion; 
let it fallow in the fridge. Call the dog


by half her name; you took the other
away. Daisy chains and breadcrumbs


for the birds; a drop of milk left all night
in the saucer; a briquette of quartz lifted


to catch the swipe of a falling star—
if a watched pot never boils, my tribute


is pasta, soaked but still stiff. 
On this first warm rain of spring, 


I’ll catch birdsong and that ozone smell
in a plastic bucket, stretch the cellophane across


until we two can lift and breathe and share.


This is to Say




To X—


This is to say
that you can milk the violence out of yourself and pour it into the storm drain.


This is to say
the moments when you struck were over like wasp-stings; the moments you didn’t
lingered in and through me, these tectonic bruises.


This is to say
that who you are now, the way you’ve opened your ribs and broken your fingers—
I can love and I can trust, but I can never un-shudder 
that whisper of fear.


This is to say
that I will always answer your number as if the other end
is a policeman. Or a coroner. 


This is to say
I know enough of you to see how you stretch the good days around your heart;
to say that I watch you wretch down that muscle memory; to say
that I feel so lucky that you survived yourself. To say: I survived you,
too. 


This is to say:
maybe. 


This is to say:
keep going. 



But, Do We Need Another Poem for Spring?




In the spring, the mountains
grow an inch taller, like my nephew
when I haven’t seen him since
a long-ago buzzcut. It matters—


this green up-do of leaves
can clear the bar of a rollercoaster:
You must be at least this alive
to ride. I don’t grow, but


my soul opens; not like a flower,
but an umbrella. It strains
the ribs, inside-outs 
into the wind. I do not fear


the sexuality of moist, 
that ugly muck-and-quench
adjective. The moist world
is the loveliest; did you know


there was a time before 
the roof? That long, steady
moistening cleans and sticks
to skin and hair; the mud


like water; the water like mud—
if you stand too long in it,
you might remember
how the oceans happened


or why the vegetables 
un-tomb themselves. 


Inkblot 




If you want to understand a man, 
watch how he holds his fingers—


what it means, not even he knows,
but you will horoscope up an answer


of your own: proximity and angle,
bone and knuckle and hair and


skin. If you want to understand
a tree, imagine each year


as a shirt layered over so many 
other shirts: what is the skin like


underneath? Only an undressing
can reveal. If you want to understand


a city, go out into the morning
and count the homeless 


and the police and the workers
in jersey cloth or silk ties,


make them into a zodiac:
those who arrive at work 


by 8am, born under the sign
of the parking officer; those


arriving in the pre-morning dark,
born under the sign of


the invisible hands and the rubber
gloves. If you want to understand,


take a handful of dice and roll,
then drain the tea cup and read


the entrails and draw three cards
because the knowing is in


the imagining. Every die
is an ink-blot. 

About the contributor

Elliott Freeman is a poet, educator, and game designer living in the mountainous hinterlands of Southwest Virginia. His work has previous appeared in journals such as Rogue Agent, Liminality, and Rust+Moth.

Related Articles

Poetry- Clara Burghelea

Process of Detachment I expect my son will let go of me when he’s five. I will go back to just being Clara. So ready to unspool...

Featured Poet Anne Tannam

Poet and writing coach Anne Tannam

The World Is Quiet Here – Rosie Bogumil

THE WORLD IS QUIET HERE Silence sulks. But thoughts are loud, louder than my voice will ever be,  somehow still...

More Like This

Mångata and other poems

Work from previous featured poet, Therese Kiernan

Earth – Ben Hession

wings outstretched at fate’s final kick, drawn by the wet light of a simulacrum, a loosened parable of brightness, his in flesh and bone, but insect-like, he drifts

Emma Lee interviews Feature Poet, Bill Cushing

Emma Lee hooked up with feature poet Bill Cushing, teacher and author of the recent collection, A Former Life'

Prophecy’ and ‘Harpies’

Kitty Coles' poems have been widely published in magazines and anthologies

Demolition in the Tropics by Rogan Kelly -Reviewed

Demolition in the Tropics by Rogan Kelly -Reviewed by Ada Wofford