Kristan LaVietes, based in Alameda, California, an island in the Bay Area, U.S., is a versatile writer whose poetry and fiction grace various journals. With a knack for crafting evocative narratives, her work resonates with readers, capturing the essence of her surroundings and experiences. LaVietes’ writing, characterized by its depth and emotion, offers poignant reflections on the human condition. Through her compelling storytelling and lyrical prowess, she continues to captivate audiences, leaving a lasting impact on the literary landscape.
Them Bones
Hard. Rock hard. I rump
a knuckle on my skull,
and that mind-cabin
is one sound structure.
Of course, what turns me on
is the decor inside. Ribbed
upholstery, curtains
flirting with light.
Etiquette dictates:
When a guest in someone’s
home, leave
your scapula at the door.
If you must wield tibia
or femur, ask.
(I like a good tibia as much
as anyone, so sure.)
Guests who come
bearing a clavicle of
chocolate or wine, well,
let’s strip down to marrow
and see now.
I once hosted
a skeleton whose radius
was a violin bow.
I could melt into
his malleus of mint
and lime and expose
the places my calcium
was in fact unstable.
To the visitor who,
reasons unimportant,
props his spine on
my mantle, throws
open all windows so
I am shivering, I say:
What is wrong with you?
Can’t you hear
my metatarsals jangling?
Here is your rib back.
Fetch.
She is Risen
We answer to the Moon.
This is a higher power.
The tide flows in, out of us.
(I think you know what I mean.)
Eve was not tempted
by some snake. (Please.)
Alone in the Universe
with three men (two of them
“all-powerful”), maybe she
felt a little, I don’t know,
trapped
in Paradise.
She speculated. Somewhere
beyond the hedges
could be a ladder
to the Moon—to the force
moving her in ways
three dudes could never.
Picture this ladder today:
A viney nest
woven upwards, its rungs
braided with tampon strings
and apron strings,
with bra straps
and purse straps.
Hair twists, bonnet bows,
silk scarves, lace.
Is it irreverence
to seek to be known?
To let Satan and God
and that suck-up Adam
say what they will, let them
go on about
all of their alleged,
wombless creations?
Is it so sinful to honor
first and foremost a potent
desire for the union
of one’s own tides
with their true maker?
Anyway, I know
the feeling.
I’ve left a church at night.
Sucralose
With breakfast at Peet’s Coffee,
signage assures me everything
is fair trade, and the abominated
fake sweetener—the Sucralose—
is not on offer, Turbinado crystals,
instead the feature.
It is absurdly warm in here.
A woman strides by outside
carrying a six-pack of bottled beer.
She’s older than I am,
her clothes and strut, practical.
She could be a realtor.
Where you going, sister?
Under my table, a spider
patrols the wall.
This is no Daddy Long Legs.
The body is low and wide.
The cephalothorax, burly.
The Ford Mustang of spiders.
I sense he has clout.
“Hey,” I whisper, “Put
the artificial sweeteners
where we can find them. I’m
a middle-aged woman,
for fuck’s sake, I’ll never
lose this pandemic weight
mainlining real sugar.”
“P.S. Can we get some air
circulating in this place?”
I hiss all of this at the poor
arachnid agent, because
I am never not
frustrated. Who knows why.
Parenthood? Draining estrogen?
My mother’s example of constant
exasperation in my formative years?
Turbinado crystals?
Really, who knows. My only 40 minutes
to myself are coming to a close,
and a packet of sugar
that spills brown rocklets
into my cup is not
sweet enough, is not
engineered for me,
does not get me.
The Galway Review 