Gone Lawn
a journal of word-things
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Gone Lawn 51
harvest moon, 2023

Featured artwork, Cheeseburger Picnic, by Chris Mars

new works

Robyn Schelenz


Small perfect wizards invade my home. They spread like fireworks.

At first I’m thinking they’re here to help, like cleaning or something. But I notice they’re not carrying out dirt or anything. In fact, they don’t seem to be doing much at all. They rearrange furniture. More and more of them arrive, emerge. And I realize that faint noise I keep hearing is just them trying to cast me out of my own house.


We go to the horse pharmacy. The horses walk slowly out. Leadened by pills. I eat some hay for my gut, I like it.


These days, the well is invisible. Lassie doesn’t fall in. Cops chase criminals they can’t find, aren’t looking for. The dried-up lake has become a shrine to water. History is happening as we speak but we don’t see it. On the path I see a neighbor but we don’t acknowledge each other. I hold your hand, but you’ve been gone forever.

Robyn Schelenz is originally from Birdsboro, Pennsylvania. Her poems are at Maudlin House, Rattle, The Nervous Breakdown, Words and Sports Quarterly and DUSIE, and forthcoming at Touch the Donkey and Back Patio Press. She currently lives in San Francisco, where her work leads her dog to slumber. Say hi at www.instagram.com/robynotheswede/.