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Laura Ohlmann


The purple light of dawn stretches

its fingers through the window.

I think the love is obvious,

I lay your work clothes on the edge

of the sofa as you sleep, coffee

grinding, the soft burr as dust

sprinkles the cabinet

like trimmed hair. Sometimes

I lay in your spot on the bed

after you’ve left it, warmth

and body imprinted, your hair

musk on the pillow . . .

the plate of the sun rises

into the sky like a gong,

your motorcycle revving

just outside the window, soft split

of smoke in cold dawn,

your head compressed in the small

unit of the helmet, branches

scraping the sky like cement

on skin, no I won’t think

like that, like your body

falling out of the sky.


Laura Ohlmann is a MFA graduate from the University of Central Florida. Her work has

appeared in The Rumpus, The Lindenwood Review, The Maine Review, GASHER, South Carolina Review, South Florida Poetry Journal and others. She's one of the Associate Editors of West Trade Review. She currently lives in Asheville, NC and enjoys traveling in her converted Honda Element and biking up mountains with her partner and dog.

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