[WHAT I KNOW OF FALLING, FALLING]
ASHLEY BEENE
What I know of falling, falling:
My body
a dead star
No,
do not steal through a field of wildflowers
thin invisible machine and blue lights.
Take a blade
a photograph
the fires on the horizon
my brutal face.
I have something to say.
You will never know my name
its salt
the difficulty of my flowering.
My body
a dead star
No,
do not steal through a field of wildflowers
thin invisible machine and blue lights.
Take a blade
a photograph
the fires on the horizon
my brutal face.
I have something to say.
You will never know my name
its salt
the difficulty of my flowering.
[THE DUST STORM BLEW THROUGH YOU]
ASHLEY BEENE
For Jawaun
The dust storm blew through you,
dandelion spines, eyeless needles
choose not to puncture,
weeds aren't such a nuisance
when covering the empty,
or do I mean what isn't
there--the waver of your laugh,
your stare, your body
as the sky settles.
The dust storm blew through you,
dandelion spines, eyeless needles
choose not to puncture,
weeds aren't such a nuisance
when covering the empty,
or do I mean what isn't
there--the waver of your laugh,
your stare, your body
as the sky settles.
ASHLEY BEENE was born and raised in Wisconsin. She completed her BA at the University of Wisconsin- Madison, and went on to complete her MFA at the University of California- Riverside. Ashley has been published in the Los Angeles Review of Books, The Oyez Review, The Madison Review, and The Boiler Journal. She currently lives in Southern California.
