2 Poems | Lindsey Lucas


From the stacks of crumbling
water-warped pages
on my grandpa’s basement shelves
I uncovered and brushed off
a thin clinging layer
of dust and cherry cigar smoke
from a pile of yellow-edged
National Geographics.
They were like Incan mummies
preserved in that dark space,
their spines unbroken,
wrapped with spice and holding
new discoveries like
small treasures in their shriveled
paper-thin hands.
I sifted through them,
marveling at the glossy photos
of haunting eyes and street-corners.
My future was full of shutters
and frozen smiles, full
of markets and dusty feet,
fresh figs and carved elephants.
The covers slowly lost
their sharp corners and colors,
the yellow fading to soft gold
in the bright light of my room.
The knee-high pile leaned against
my bed until I was old enough
to drive past airports.


After My Sister’s Diagnosis

My hands grip
the wheel at ten & two.
Hers perch on the edge
of the faux leather seat,
and tap restless fingers.
We lose the radio
to the distance,
station after station.

We were never
good at peering through
the fog. We were never
warm and loose-tongued.
We never spoke low
or risked truer words
in that cold.

My sister leans away,
presses her fingers
to the glass.
We pass columned
fields of windmills,
brushed with wild
blue chicory edges.

The sun throws
a heavy blade-shadow
over the two-lane road
for a moment.

She ventures into the quiet,
says she understands
Don Quixote,

Lindsey Lucas is a recent graduate of Missouri Western State University with a double major in English literature and creative writing & publishing. For two years, she served as the web and social media editor for The Mochila Review, a national undergraduate literary journal, and Canvas, an on-campus journal. She writes poetry, drinks coffee in the morning and tea at night, and is an editorial intern for Sundress Publications.

“Archaeology” was previously published in The Blue Route’s January issue.


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