Lacie Meier is an ailurophile and advanced dilettante. She loves the smell of rain-wet wood and pine needles warmed by the sun. Though she currently resides on Florida’s Gulf Coast, she misses her days as a northern forest sprite and plans to return home soon. She is the recipient of the Estelle J. Zbar Poetry Award, a 2014 AWP Intro Awards nominee, and an Ashbury House nominee. Her work has appeared in Prick of the Spindle and The Pinch Literary Journal.
When littler girls, we were still
boys, fawn brown, raw
hide. Do you remember
the names we gave the birds
that died?
bodies still
soft, ripe plums. a rest
in the apple blossom bed
under grandmother’s window.
Grey lace webs early
afternoon. We lie
unasleep
in the shade.