Trill

By KRISTA J.H. LEAHY

leahy dispatch

 

Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

To sing of what I fear,
shaking my body,
has an integrative power.

Sometimes something is
so funny even my legs laugh.

I do not know
the frequency of god,
but I adore
the frequency of laughter.

Not all frequencies are free.

I’ve learned this the hard way
from people who would profit
from what makes others shake.

Who teaches us to fear?
Who teaches us to laugh?

I would show you aspen
winnowing the wind
so that you would always
ken beauty from quake.

But it is not mine to always.

It is mine to some,
to often,
to rarely,
to mostly,

if I’m lucky,
to mostly   love

how aspens
shake
the whole
mountain range.

 

Krista J. H. Leahy’s poetry has appeared in RaritanReckoningTin HouseFree Lunch and elsewhere. Her prose has appeared in ClarkesworldFarrago’s WainscotLady Churchill’s Rosebud WristletYear’s Best Science Fiction and Fantasy and elsewhere. She would like to thank both Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity and Vermont Studio Center for the gift of time. 

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Bradley Weber

Trill

Related Posts

Worn front door

From Sieve: A Preliminary Draft and a Ruin

HILDEGARD HANSEN
There were half-collapsed buildings at the sides of the road, the roof fallen in, stone walls still standing. Sometimes a small footpath and an old stone bridge, long driveways down to a stone house, smoke out the chimney.

A sepia-tone image showing a young girl with a ribbon in her hair smiling next to a piano, one hand affectionately resting on the edge of the lid.

Salamisim

CHARISSE BALDORIA
I have lived in this breath. This space between tension and resolution, concocter of magic and desire. I have learned to hold an audience in the palm of my hand, to deny them, which means, to deny myself. On the verge of arrival, there’s always a promise of fulfillment, of final release. Of approval.

Saturday

HANNAH JANSEN
At the laundromat the whir of machines, / whorled & busy, the pleasure & difficulty / of stillness     Waiting, sockless, I aspire to be / the cross-legged woman reading a magazine, / settled into her corner of time     I like her gray braid, / the way her skin sings.