“We spill over into the world and the world spills over into us.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

Laurie Higi lives and writes on a chicken farm in South Whitley, Indiana. She has a Bachelor of Arts in English Writing from Indiana University-Purdue University, Fort Wayne. Her chapbook, The Universe of Beaver Lake, was published by Finishing Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in The Dandelion Review, Confluence Literary Magazine, Surreal Beauty Magazine, and Bohemia Art Magazine. She has also published work in Reality Serum Magazine and Landlocked Lyres Literary Magazine. She enjoys being surrounded by flowers, clouds, and stars with her family, on their farm.

Laurie was recorded via Zoom from her home.

Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Laurie, what poems have you brought for us today?

The Voice

So like the trestles and the river flowing beneath them
the gravel road weary of shards stabbed into its back
dawn spreads it moonlight legs
and gleams with foggy sunlight
above moths and butterflies
I call to me those gone to bathtubs
young corpses stars ripped out
of a universe only alive to the dead and
those in trees by the river too far from home
I call the blizzards and freezing rain
lightning thunder wind
strong currents
heat waves
I call the blood of fish and drumsticks
the pools of blood from straight razors
I call the friends and the friendly
I call the sane and insane
I call teachers I call drummers
I call cooks engineers students bikers
drug dealers
I call the stilled heart
I call the one I’ve lost
I call the one I’ve lost
I call the one I’ve lost
the hazy morning sits cross-legged on the corner of my bed
the moths and butterflies dance around me
the first a polka the last a salsa
the young corpses fidget at my voice
the stars ripped down pulsate with glow
those in trees by the river too far from home jump down and fly like a sparrow
sing at my window
safe with the sound of my voice home
blizzards wrap around my hair
freezing rain if it is possible hollows my eye
lighting looses light under my thumb
thunder if it is possible quiets itself
I receive amazing embraces from the wind
the strong currents carry me home
the heat waves do not drench me but cool my reddened face
the blood of fish comforts me with its glimmer
the blood of drumsticks dance for me
the pools of straight razor blood cleanse me
friends and the friendly come back to hear me
friends reconsider at my voice
the sane and insane listen to me and cooperate
the first reluctantly the last wholeheartedly
the teachers leave their classrooms and claim the I may lead their teachings
the drummers sing to me
the cooks save children
save my voice
save my name
the engineers calculate with my fingertips
the students can’t wrap their heads around what I say
the bikers stop on the side of the road and let my voice proceed
the drug dealers cry and leave the country
the stilled heart beats when I call

the one I’ve lost can not hear me
the one I’ve lost does not come home
the one I’ve lost can not answer


This is Yours

I am sitting here, trying to remember all the places where I have written poetry. Have I left something in each one? A blessing of words, delicately strung, like beads on a wire? Other visitors wear it, not knowing what it is, but they can feel it on their ankle. That glittering residue, visible only when the black of the new moon hits the floor just right? Still, what of the places I’ve read poetry aloud? Any poetry, not only my own? Does my voice add to the night sounds there? The cricket, bullfrog, a low, nervous, female sound shaking pink-white petals from the magnolia branch to the shimmering, spring dirt? The places I’ve listened to other’s poetry? Usually dimly lit rooms, peppered with white string lights to celebrate the gift of voice that trickles into my wanting ear and steeps into my mind. Bring galaxies of inspiration to later flow from my pen. I’ll leave this for you. This is yours.

Mixing With the Quiet

With no sound but our fire crackling,
the bullfrogs on Little Beaver Lake,
this non quiet that is as silent as the cathedral on Monday afternoon.
The religious experience we feel
as the energy flows through your arm about my shoulder
and into my stomach. As you point out shooting stars,
whose flight we hear as streaming constellations in our bones,
mixing with the quiet after years of regular strangers.
Tonight, I know you more than anyone.


You've been listening to the poetry of Laurie Higi on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.