BURNING HOUSE PRESS

July 4: a poem

by Laura Paul

A lot of people reach enlightenment
in prison cells.
I hope that I
do not.


If they disappear me, I thought
at least I can write about it.
If they detain you, I told him
write about it
and I’ll make sure
your words survive.


It may be hell,
but at least death is real too.


Preoccupied, the mind bars itself in.
There is no grass to water
that has not already been poisoned.
What does life want
in this time of sacrifice
only to build cemeteries.
The men told me
they wanted to tear it all down
I told them
I want to begin.



The future
has its knife
to our necks.
I’m breathing heavy
at the lack of restraint.
The only order made here
is to stamp barcodes
on babies.
While I couldn’t even stand
to see a sleeping child
alone on the bus.


Water terror water
The terror floods,
the water escapes.
I stuck my feet in the lake
to cool off my thoughts.
I boiled my stomach
in preparation
to outlast the war.


The sirens hunt ears
like angry politicians.
What were they so upset about?
A slight delay
to their insider trading.
I waited 8 months
for a hospital
to be told
I was unqualified for care.
What do I care? I asked,
I’ll just stick my neck out
in the middle of the street.


The elderly, too poor
to own ice cubes
chew on something
much more ephemeral.


There was a diamond
sitting on top of the fire hydrant
that had been smashed.
We could’ve all shared it,
so who had the ignorant thought
that the thirsty
would make better miners instead?
I don’t care what science says,
some carbon
is just carbon.


I didn’t know if I should
pay for work
or take a job for no pay.
What did it matter? I wondered,
insomnia lags behind me
like a desk chair.
I could always tell my mother
I broke into a bank.


If you get sued
for being homeless
just remember
that some power
is a greater threat than money.


He stole my identity
and then tried to make a talk show out of it.
When I asked him what it was like
to be a woman,
he responded with,
“The best things in life are free.”
When I asked him how he got
to that answer
He said,
“I don’t know, didn’t you say that once?”


There was a lot of chatter
about trophies
before I got pummeled,
pressed, face first
into the pavemen
wrestled down, dominated
by thick hands
with no soul.
A voice droned on
with the force of an industrial ceiling fan
that merely stated
there wasn’t much to say anymore.


News blinks
in case you were
resting. No, not dormant, not
even allowed
a break.


He told me
I had to play a shark
if I wanted to defend myself.
Sir, I exclaimed
I’m a poet
I’ve never been
attacked by a word.


In an imaginary fight
two women
were punching each other
in my head.
I threw one out into the street
and the other one died.
Neither was self-defense.
We were just all
so very angry that summer.


I tore the sheets off the bed
and they dropped to the floor
in a noose.
This one’s for you, boss.
I don’t care how much
overtime
you’ll pay me.


I screamed so loud
my eyes exploded with blood.
Oh that was just a dream,
I remembered
as I continued
to clean up
the cut on my wrist.


People joked
about sending kids
to prison.
The parents
threated
to call the cops.
That Halloween
everyone ran around
in orange jumpsuits.
I thought it was practice,
but they called it
a farce.


I got set off
when someone struck a match
on my elbow.
Don’t mind me, they whimpered
I can’t afford food.

       Firework Display

Flashing lights, to celebrate
the dawn’s bomb, the bomb’s
song, the fist
full of pennies, of metals
properly mined
by children.
I visited their graves I
wanted their graves to last
I watered their bedsides
and grew flowers
from the ash.
Their teeth were so small!
I could hardly stand
that someone wanted
a crown
made out of them
as I carved their hopes
into my arms
and hoped my blood
would be thick enough
to fill an inkwell.
I gave up
trying to uncoil
sorrow from sorrow
a heartbreak from a border
a family
from
the identification
of what a family could be.
The wrench I gave, the one
I held in my hand
had decayed, valueless against
an architecture
that wanted disease, that
spread violence
against
the hope of a loaf of bread
and the journey of a new life.

What does it matter? I thought
if they hurt me
I’ll write about it
if they kill me
I’ll write again.

I burrowed so deep
into the crook of my arm
that I saw
another light.

Laura Paul is a writer and artist living in Chicago. Her book, Film Elegy, was released in 2024 from PRROBLEM Press. Her next book, Total Art, is forthcoming from Lavender Ink in Autumn 2025.