“Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.” ― Mary Oliver
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 joins us remotely via Zoom.
Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Laurie, what poems have you brought for us?
Your Eye in My Mind
I want to memorize
your face. Count
every hair growing out of the top
of your nose. Every freckle
on your forehead.
To duplicate the blue
of your eye in mind
so that I can perfect the description
of it as the clearest sky
with a speck of storm on the right side.
Tonight, I smoked half of one of your cigarettes
just so I could taste you
30 minutes before I would meet your tongue.
The smoke, like peek-a-boos of white
now playing on your sideburns.
Your lips, like arms, greet me.
I am home.
------
Dolly Parton and the Backs of My Ears
Last night, I realized two things;
I have no idea what the backs of my ears look like
and I don’t listen to nearly enough Dolly Parton.
I was at a country music concert at the high school.
The youngest attendee by 20 years or so.
A 9 to 5 cover snapped me into obsession
with the ear-backs of the elderly couple in front of me.
The backs of their ears danced when that familiar tune began.
I could almost see them getting larger, opening wider to take in the twang.
It appeared to be some sort of Nashville magic trick.
The couple clapped and tilted their heads from side to side.
The ears grasped tightly to the sides of their skulls,
like four kids on a small-town carnival ride. Their joyful expression
concealing the secret terror growing in their stomachs.
Today I can’t stop thinking about my ear backs.
And maybe making them my new muse.
------
The Burn Hidden by the Horizon
The tips of my memories are sparking
like the red glow of the winter
sunrise lighting up the tops
of the bare tree branches as I drive west
into the country. Their cold trunks
don’t feel the burn still hidden by the horizon.
I think about how we used to hang,
like 4 long green beans
on a soggy summer afternoon.
At different times, harvested.
Me, gently, the others roughly.
Picked too soon, then hung again.
Pods broken open
scattered among the weeds.
While my seeds were safe,
they now ferment in my fertilized crisis.
Effervescence consuming my heart,
as it pours over the why’s and why not me?
Pickling thoughts to ensure
that they will last at least another year
chilling on that cool, dark, pantry shelf of my mind.
The sun has changed from red to its usual
glow, warming the trunk, stretching to branches
all the way to the most vulnerable twig that may
or may not break off with the next gust of wind,
to join the beans and the weeds
on the now frozen ground.
-------
A Task Without Praise
I can’t touch the bottom of this lake
and I’m about 18 years deep.
So, I just tread water. I don’t know if I’m being
strong or weak but I’m not sure if I could breathe
if I had only myself to care for.
My legs are getting tired of kicking around all of this brown,
Indiana water. Tangled in weeds, hoping each time that it’s
the magnificent, iridescent fish that I’ve been casting for.
Why is their no glory in lily pad or seaweed?
Cleaning off the hook and re-worming it
is a necessary but praise-less task.
--------
Just What I Could Fit in My Pockets
The early morning chicken chores were interrupted
by the sunrise-colored pear tree, blending with the sky’s
red-yellow welcome. I stood, still, next to the coop to quiet
the birds, listening for the faint buzz of bees telling me
that the pears are ripe for devouring.
Unprepared, I took just what I could fit in my pockets, leaving
the soft spots for the bees as they gently agreed to my taking
the firm fruit. They will have time to soften on my sunniest counter,
greeting my tongue, Tuesday, with their grit, as the sweetest sand against my teeth.
You've been listening to poems by Laurie Higi on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
