MICHAEL LAUCHLAN
Lips
“…like something almost being said.”
—Philip Larkin
—Philip Larkin
Hers are pursed to contain what
verges on speech, what might spill
into the air as a river slips from its banks.
The massed memory of upriver rain
and today’s downpour push limbs,
leafy branches laden with tires,
a grocery cart, even a small suitcase
trailing kids’ clothes. All turn
and grind like a hum shaping a word.
Now, it says, now beyond doubt,
beyond faith and berm and throatlump.
The torrent covers the ball-field, licks
at the mound, fills the paved lot
to the latches of the sad deserted cars.
Now, moans the river, I will speak.
Michael Lauchlan has lived in and around Detroit for his entire life. His most recent chapbook is Sudden Parade, from Riverside Press. Poems have appeared in many publications including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, Victoria Park, The North American Review, Ninth Letter, Natural Bridge, Apple Valley Review, Chiron Review, and The Collagist, and have been included in Abandon Automobile, from Wayne State University Press and in A Mind Apart, from Oxford Press. (mlauchlan@gmail.com)