Three Poems

Laurinda Lind

Elsewhere, Seventeen

Four hundred seventy miles south
of where I sat with molars jerked
from my jaw I saw the jerker,
my dentist down the road at home,
in the Smithsonian standing under
the Spirit of St. Louis, which was
suspended from the ceiling like
an interlude of novocaine. From
the balcony above I didn’t breathe
but no sixth sense made him look
to where I stood in his sky with
a hand hiding my mouth. I was
away with my aunt where in a city
of seven hundred thousand, eight
staticky hours straight down across
three states, no one could expect
to see someone else from our cold
ruined corner. Two years later in
the city for a second time I saw
a couple of so-good girls from
school in my tiny town on a senior
trip, square in my path at the zoo
carrying purses so full of purity,
they could not stand this surprise
from someone who had escaped
but was supposed to stay in place
far north. So it turned out they too
were unnerved by extraction and
wondered, I did too, how I had
dropped down in their lives like
an outrageous engine. Like
wreckage from a root canal.

*******

Drive Into France with Your English Car

Venez! You’ll like it. Probably
no one will bomb the Chunnel
while you’re chugging through
it under water. Vraiment. Your
headlamps aren’t right for
running around par ici but feel
free to spend un peu on peel-
off deflectors plus le crap
you need to carry in the boot
but will never use. Enjoy driving
at the droit edge of the lane
while guessing what goes
on at the gauche. Souriez for
the photo; you’ll look so bon
for the fine. You didn’t need
all those euros anyway.

*******

After It’s Over It’s Not Over

David Berkowitz found his birth family
while his neighbor’s dog was still telling
him how to take down more dark-haired
women. Reimagined genes weren’t about
to weld his wires. What kept you so long,
he said, once the heat finally figured
him out. They filed him away at 24
and today he’s 40 years older and, guess
what, saved. Every second year he passes
on parole review. Even my youngest
son’s older than he was then, a blacked-
out light, a guy getting girls the only
way that worked but now he is
a persistent preacher shooting that shit
as far as it will fly, because belief
goes broader and infects them so much
faster, much better even than bullets.

——————————————————————————–

Laurinda Lind lives in New York’s North Country, near Canada. Some poetry acceptances/ publications have been in Constellations, The Cortland Review, Paterson Literary Review, and Radius; also anthologies Visiting Bob: Poems Inspired by the Life and Work of Bob Dylan (New Rivers Press) and AFTERMATH (Radix Media). In 2018 she won first-place awards for the Keats-Shelley adult-poetry prize and the New York State Fair poetry competition.

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