Ginna Luck’s work can be read or is forthcoming in Juked, Gravel, Pif Magazine, Radar Poetry, Menacing Hedge, Gone Lawn, Hermeneutic Chaos Journal, and others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has an MFA from Goddard College. She currently lives in Seattle with her husband and three boys.
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I Gave You No Answer
I drew my sickness in a circle on your chest and lit the circle on fire.
I draped my body over you like a dense green moss.
The fire was more than our anatomy.
My sickness was more than the fire.
The fire breathed like a room full of people clutching and kissing wide mouthed.
The fire spit blue pulse of sparks into our hot empty mouths.
Our mouths became a flaming hoop brighter than every volcano.
A tight circle of green became tragically powerful.
I saw how my sickness made you
uncomfortable.
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There Is No Space Here For Waiting
In a narrow room with one tired window
is my heart on my arm
like a complicated feeling.
In a narrow room with one tired window
is a bed made from a spot on my face
that looks like old age
and I have to lie down on it anyway.
In a narrow room with one tired window
are hours like a broken box of parts
I can’t do anything with.
In a narrow room with one tired window
is the transparent air and my invisible
words lit up all over the walls.
I am thinking of where life happens
and a single frozen shoe
like a dead bird
drags from my mouth.
I am thinking of my family
and tall weeds
grow out of a love note.
I am thinking of one room full of windows
and a hole in my tooth becomes
one very radiant light.
And outside the window falls the rain.
And outside the window is an unfinished sky
between my children’s open arms
I have no idea of the distances.
I slide the window open and open.
The rain is warm. Why not just accept it?