Gone Lawn
a journal of literature
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Gone Lawn 27
Winter, 2018

New Works

Samara Golabuk

I am Cuttlebone

after a parrot has grown old
sharpening its beak
on my white, brittle body —
the hollowed, worn places
more empty for knowing
what had been there,
a slipstream shape meant
for oceans, density
for navigation and currents,
or were — each peck and draw
of blade-sharp horned mouth
rasps across my firm
resolve, my wholeness
Scrape, a diagnosis. Scrape,
scrape, a divorce, two
We are told I am
good for something,
the birds will use me
and grow strong, weather-
ing me away to translucence.
The avian will one day
bang its beak against
the cage where I was, then
someone will
replace me
with a fresh
white slab

My grandmother

who had been in the world
this whole time, isn't anymore.
We, the generations left,
changed our ordinal numbers
today. Second, first. The
bangling fractures of space
framed themselves, old pictures.
No longer third, now second. Old
typewriter return swings its lever
across the universe, advances
the page, we move closer
to the bottom margins.
My brain-blank mind
ejects the paper early,
it flies up into the humid
scarred Florida night sky,
not anything like wings,
not anything like a bird
or a light metaphor.

Samara Golabuk is a Pushcart nominee whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Eyedrum Periodically, Anti-Heroin Chic, Eunoia Review, Plum Tree Tavern and others. She has two children, works in marketing and design, and has returned to university to complete her BA in Poetry.