Tell Me a Story Or Another Vineyard
My sister keeps seeing a woman with
a long gray braid and glasses, so she
calls me. I tell her that my hair is as
short as hers, the last time I saw
her.
I have been thinking of Catalina a lot
lately.
“Grapes
and grays and graze,” we
say.
Sleeping Sevenling
It was the time of
the metaphors,
the verb to be,
participles.
Winter,
static winter,
winter ring was the
rest of the world.
Meanwhile, I was
trying to hold a place in my head all winter.
In Memoriam
Of the tree
that thought itself
a horse.
A feeling for my steed please, the tree
has turned into a
horse that is too old to ride.
Standing still,
it is dying,
broken legs are
fatal for horses.
Sap is all that is
left
of the branch that
I used to climb on
the branch that was
its back, thick as my thigh.
A big barreled
animal standing at 16.2 hands,
a tree as tall as
me,
with a mane of
needles
I could use to find
its breed, its species, its seedlings
unfolding into
foals.
I have loved
a tree that thought
itself a horse. I want
a blood bay horse
again.
Julia Rose Lewis is a working towards her MFA at Kingston
University London. She received her BA
in Biology and Chemistry from Bryn Mawr College PA. Her poetry incorporates philosophy of
science, representations of illness, and climate change. For her dissertation she is looking at the
intersection of ecopoetics and queer theory.
When not in school, she is living on Nantucket Island. She is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective
of Nantucket. Her poems have appeared in
their second and third anthologies, Lemmon
Hummus and Tips on Throwing a
Housewarming Party in a Small Space.
