gently wrapped around southern hills.
Heart of pink opals, orange juice and champagne
is not mine. Ribbon-wrapped carnations, flags whipped
in wind—that is not mine. I did not wash their hands.
That soap is not mine. That water is not mine.
My hands were Persephone’s; my mother’s withering
crops, curse of barren land,
forbidden seeds of the red pomegranate, my split
Lindsey Wayland wrote her first poem when she was six. That first volume of poetry covered the pages inside a locked diary, whose key was the size of her six-year-old pinky knuckle. Poetry has always been about process for Lindsey--a way to access her inner council with a vernacular of whichever stage of life she is experiencing. Her love language is poetry, her wisdom exhales in poetry, her mind thinks in oft-fragmented enjambment, and the final pivotal gasping couplet is what she lives for. Lindsey's poetry has been published in Red River Review, Cordella Magazine, and Porter Gulch Literary Review. She lives in a cedar shake house in a meadow in the forest by the Salish Sea in Port Townsend with her husband and their three young children.