Poetry 2017

Beginning to Make Things Happen

By: Naomi Bartlett


This is not a fungus. Once

I planned to live forever,

            eternity ad nauseum,

until baby’s-breath and contraceptive sunrise found me


laughing in the dirt, drifting between

delirium and pink echo, post climax.




This is what tropism is.


I’m lying in bed considering you.

Yesterday I remembered allergies

and today I drank a whole bottle of gin

while tangerine juice dripped

down your chin and into last year.