Laressa Dickey Poems







In the way the wind often does, in the way


the wind and often, does it not appear

often on a dirt lined hand, does it appear


that a hand, a dirt grind, ground in

like hands, not pauses, but hands

linked in dirt in the way the wind


appears, in that††††††††††††††††††††† way



My right hand on the same side as yours



In the corner opposite me, angle within

an angle. How things donít touch, and the space


between them hums, ††††††††††† charges.How the space

takes the form of a hand, leftover


shaking itself of hello, goodbye



right on the same side as you



The quiet tonight. In my hand

moving toward this heart


the wind and often, does it not appear


breath, the hand reminding

buy saltines, touch somebodyís face


Hands are days when I forget the lash of silk


We knew †††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† everything



Often on a dirt lined hand, does it appear

what passed between tabletop and drawer


What God is not, fingered in my front pocket

Change. But yes, when you said I was

removed from my own feelings, I went

looking †††††††††† ††††††††††† my whole life



Braided gate. We put the red mare down

Foot. What appears to put down


What grows toward home? The season

for passage. Time†††††† shuffling

a stiff deck. Who kept score †††††††††††† Iím

not recalling


Toss the corner over you †††† shoulder

The way the wind often I thought



That yearn is not young, but close. Horseshoes

around a ring


like a wooden neck; like cheese


holes for small fingers, for tongues and teeth



The way home hung in the air around


our hands, felt something like hands


like pauses in dirt




Punica Granatum

for AG


Roll the fruit in your hands until itís bruised.


What song did you sing on your way to the Caspian sea?


You were loading pomegranates into the truck.


Folding your boy heart into a paper crane.


It flocks in chambers. Corners.


The boy is outside. The boy


is outside the orchard.


The color of the earth here is the moon


under which you were born. All things scarlet hold truth:


stains the lips, the white shirt, tiny seed.


The boy is inside each tree. Tonight he writes across endless rows.


Sometimes in darkness, your spine dodges


the bullet that never aims at you.


The boyís heart is inside. He ducks behind the gate (finally)


there his grandmother greets him.


You hold the fruit in your palm and lift it to your lips, biting a tiny hole in the skin.


You had been hoping for a friendly face.


Roll the fruit in your hands but cradle it.





Laressa Dickey is a poet, dancer and teacher. Her artistic work has been influenced by the exploration of many forms, including painting, gardening, site-specific performance, contact improvisation, and mosaics. She grew up on her family's tobacco farm in rural Tennessee amidst tall poplars and to this day likes to take to the woods for solace of every kind.


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