May 1, 2015

Becca Lamarre: Three Poems, "Every Time I Push Through a Door"

Becca Lamarre grew up in Terre Haute, Indiana, and still grows nostalgic for the town's many railroad crossings and the distinct smell of it's paper mills. She holds a MA in Higher Education and a BS in Psychology from Ball State University and her fascination with human behavior and motivations strongly influences her writing. She currently lives in Chicago with her family where she is working on her first full-length poetry collection. A sample of her work is forthcoming in Poetry Pacific.

Every Time I Push Through a Door

These days and evenings it’s not so easy
to sink into that place of dreams.

The furniture has been arranged and rearranged
The shadows have lain themselves flat

then stood up straight stretched across
the clock as it keeps score of

the intervals of time that we’re apart.
When the trinkets are moved and shoveled,

when the photos are taped to the wall,
I envision you nodding your approval. 

The bed is shoved up against the best window
in the best place to hear outdoors burst forward;

sirens and weather, and garbage trucks
and drunk girls arguing their way home.

The bed began catty catty corner,
away from the noise but then the quiet
made me ache -

for a city of three million souls
should never be as intimate as a bone.

a building as a good luck charm

Through all of time we fall
with no compass

with no pocket,
it can be more of a float

drift mother backhand swing.
It can be a dive with

no where but sour to go.  
I’ve drawn you my whole life

without knowing it was you.
I can’t help but glance up each day

at your spires, your steel strong
thrusting into the blue of sky or

fading into the urban fog -
you won’t fit inside my pocket,

I can’t rub you or shake you and
there’s nothing quite like you in the suburbs.

You have nothing to hold onto
but if you did

I would take your hands and squeal
not happily,

in utter ancestoral inhibition
You never put up a fight!

And I know nothing of physics
except that I’m infinitely drawn to you.


There’s an anchor in my backseat
But still I drift
Float away
As if there is an invisible thread
Just holding to the very tip
Of my being
My arm extended to excess
My finger points to you up there
Up up I go
Until the string is pulled taut
And I hover
A second of suspense for
The string may snap
But instead it loosens
And I sink back down down
Open my eyes
I’m in the carport
And it’s time to carry in the groceries
And cook dinner

~Becca Lamarre

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