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Ashleigh Lambert

Maybe Not What Winnicott Had In Mind


a death can be a transitional object,

something to suck on between breast & obsolescence


you can bring a death with you

choose not to use it if you’re embarrassed


worry the tatters, clutch it close:  

could in theory be rid of once it’s outgrown


mama’s coming back. she always comes back

first trip out of hades, a little taste of home



Laura Bridgman


Dark into darker, sense

into nothing. Bricked


eyes & all openings thick

with cement. The throat


a jagged place for catching echoes.

Crying does not draw anything close.


Language chuffs away

like a train round a bend.


Shelter as a cellar—

a clammy descent.


Touch breaks in on fear:

you are wild in your panic.


Slap in palm

in place of sound.


Heat of an effort,

and now firmer,


now lighter,

an escape is impressed,


by flicker, by imprint,

something is lifted,

intact, from the black.



Song for Gun



the one who holds the gun: how we want him

to fade back into the jaunty melody that plays

contrapuntal to our daily dirge.  don’t you know

any upbeat tunes? the score of the world

was written for you. the one with the gun

is a metallic note like a bridge

we must hold our breath to cross.

the one sharing his gun: we play him

out on kazoo. our song is desperate

to overcome your song, but your song is the one

that explodes in our sleep.



Varieties of Foreign FOMO



Fear of missing out

on massacres? Fiends with


overcome peaceful assembly.


outsourced to less desirable


Odious translation.

Foreign FOMO is

oenophiles sucking down life abroad.

M’aidez—my screen: its

ontological leer.

            May Day, screening calls

            so the news can’t reach me here.


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