Lotte L.S.

Like Something the Light Renders Invisible

And he climbs back into the car. The sudden jolt
before falling asleep. Sun frisking every cell goodnight.
Zero phone calls home. A deception
in which the sleeping body initially appears to be
dead. She can feel the forces but not yet see their teeth.
The sycamore slumped over the car like an arrestee. She thinks
about coming. She thinks about going.
Among the diminishing amounts of available light. The ear
hears what the eye no longer detects. The eye sees what
the ear remains dormant to. Skin regains all possibilities
for uncertainty. Slight loss of breath.
A sensation of extension. The shuttering of the eyes to imagine
oneself elsewhere. Each passing thought similar but not
the same. On opening.
The axis of a tree shifting to become an arrow pointing east.
A duck looking to the left suddenly a rabbit gazing
upwards. The inability to distinguish the faintest flicker of sunshine
on the face. Like leaving the projectionist’s
at daybreak. Nevertheless.
She is able to differentiate the tree as sycamore. Through
the air currents alone streaming in from the window.
The deciduous sycamore. Freshly enucleated. Abandoned fridges
stretched out like sunbathers at the side of the road.
All that’s left—
two names scratched onto a single cell of bark.
Awaiting elucidation.

Des Matons

I had thought whatever we have been building
will be walking of its own accord come midnight,
as if a hand inside the body were gently closing
into a fist. A fern grew out of the earth and astonished
the remaining senses, form grew into a night tree—
a “truly exceptional case” said the court. Other bodies
came out to play—withholding evidence,
branching out into fresh light. Eventually wondering
not, ‘Who should I vote for?’
but, ‘Is this incompatible with my existence?’
Those who were apprehended given a case number,
handcuffs affixed to each leaf—I want so much
to see things for how they truly are—could the tree do it?
Safety cannot be found in the magic 8 ball alone,
the assertion of people as single letters—
E throwing up in the flower pots, still reeling
from the tear gas. I wanted to be this, and then I wanted
to be that, then finally I wanted to be what I could
no longer, and so here I am.

Lotte L.S. is a poet living in Great Yarmouth, the furthest easterly outlier of England. She is the 2019 recipient of the C.D. Wright Memorial Scholarship to the Community of Writers in Olympic Valley. She keeps an infrequent portfolio and tinyletter, Shedonism.