Thrush Poetry Journal
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Lea Marshall

This

We never slept together. Most nights 
we stayed gloriously awake together, 
drenched and profane. Love steamed 
from us and away, left us salt-clean 
and thick. We knew not to ask. 
Between glass and wood, the dark 
pressed us and we let it, our fingers 
spread, flanks tensed. We bit and sang, 
salt-stung and quick. Paper ripped 
under us, cups rattled. Mornings came 
hoarse and streaked, then utterly silent. 
We found the torn places and nestled there.




Mercy 
 
My daughter says to her papa in camouflage, 
if I were a deer I would tell you not to shoot 
me but I would show you some deer 
who are really really sick, who need to be killed. 
And on her little hoofs she would walk him 
through the woods, her white tail never 
flickering, to where her friends were waiting. 




Lea Marshall's poems have  appeared in Hayden's Ferry Review, Unsplendid, Linebreak, Diode Poetry Journal, Tupelo Press's 30/30 Project, Broad Street Magazine, and elsewhere. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and was a finalist for the 2014 New Issues Poetry Prize and the 2014 Crab Orchard First Book Award. She is a freelance dance critic, and holds an MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University, where she is also Associate Chair of the Department of Dance & Choreography.




Return to November 2014 Edition