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About this poet

Luiza Flynn-Goodlett is the author of the chapbooks Unseasonable Weather (dancing girl press, 2018) and Congress of Mud (Finishing Line Press, 2015). She serves as the poetry editor at Foglifter Press and lives in Oakland, California.

Will

FOR MY MOTHER

She demands a burlap sack and hand-dug
backyard hole, despite questionable legality

within city limits or merits of me muscling
her in, rigor mortis and all. I ought to just

acquiesce, pump iron in preparation. But
it's the literal carrying of her death, which

I must do anyway from then on. So I offer
Arizona desert where they'd place her on

a platform to bake, sustain vultures. Even
the body farm, where she'd be tossed down

a well, bullet-riddled. But she insists, so
I picture handing shovels to siblings. And,

once the size seemed sufficient, I'd head
inside, lift her as Atlas, she, the world.

Copyright © 2017 Luiza Flynn-Goodlett. “Will” originally appeared in Tar River Poetry. Used with permission of the author.

 

Copyright © 2017 Luiza Flynn-Goodlett. “Will” originally appeared in Tar River Poetry. Used with permission of the author.

 

Luiza Flynn-Goodlett

Luiza Flynn-Goodlett

Luiza Flynn-Goodlett is the author of the chapbooks Unseasonable Weather (dancing girl press, 2018) and Congress of Mud (Finishing Line Press, 2015). She serves as the poetry editor at Foglifter Press and lives in Oakland, California.

by this poet

poem

Red-throated hummingbirds spar above

the magnolia. Upwind, something grilled.

The dogs are still alive, yap at whitetail in

the cornfield. The rooster hasn't chased us

down the driveway, so no one got fed up,

loaded the shotgun. Father's heart doesn't

yet float on a pillow of fat

poem

What whispers suckle, tugs
spines upright, name god.

Acolytes—mice sniffing
a wet breeze, blouse milksoaked

at an infant's cry,
universe ever expanding.

Oh cosmic through line,
teach the weaker sex your

bruising grip. May we find
statements