Prayer For the Springtime

Not the powder snow, not

the greyed sludge, not the

subzero breeze, nor the sparse

sunrays. But, Christ,


bless the resurrection

of spring, which, discounting

the predicted design of

the period, ambushed my mind

with a temperate clime.


Repay me the days

spent with the currency of

my memory and refund my forgetting

the fairness of these degrees.


Father, I bear my bosom

as a busted cage, my heart

untamed against the bars,

claws etching the metal.


I lift to you jagged scars

snipped with rusty scissors,

once left in the kitchen sink

for a little too long.


Bless the self who

still receives the sunlight

as a gift, eagerly tearing

patterned paper encasing the star,

contents exciting.


Bring back to life the girl who

would wade in this day’s winds,

allowing the intake of oxygen

to let her float instead of sink

to the bottom.


God, help me reform my damaged

memories as I think to say


Here we go again.


–Elizabeth Lacey

(inspired by Jericho Brown’s Prayer of the Backhanded)


126: I Could Have

I could have avoided all that trouble if I had only remembered to know my place.

I sheepishly walked into the basement of the party, lights flashing and music blasting. I was surrounded by bodies; bodies jumping, bodies grinding, bodies screaming. This was one of the first times that I had been in a place like this. Part of me liked it.

From across the room, we made eye contact. I looked at him in his costume and he looked at me in mine. Soon, we were dancing.

And soon, we were going back to his place. He opened the door to his room and I followed him inside as shyly as earlier. I had never done this before.

We took a break for him to go to the bathroom. I felt tired; I wanted to leave. Suddenly, a brunette entered the bedroom.

“Who are you?” she asked me.

“I’m his friend.”

“I’m his girlfriend.

I immediately pulled my skirt down and headed for my heels. I grabbed the rest of my items and trampled down the stairs. I could hear them yelling above me as I darted out into the rain.

If I had only remembered to know my place. 

via See Jane Write: 365 Blog Post Ideas and Writing Prompts

Terms and Conditions


Until now, now that I’ve reached my twenty first year:

All my attempts to impress the male sex have been criminal:

From initiating proposals to accepting their terms,

I’ve seceded from my expectations.


A cooperative agreement is what they call it:

my current, compliant state.

I’ve known this agreement between the genders goes

Back to one bite of an apple. Some things never change.


Is this who I am? To permit a first kiss

between sips of Keystone?

To submit to a “hey” at three in the morning?

According to this agreement, this is.


I’ve failed to go through the fine print, the very words

that, looking long and hard you read:

“Send nudes.” Somehow, there must be more than this.


There is more. 


This agreement has opened more doors for me, not limited

To the following: my rented bedroom, the back

Of my station wagon, and a boyfriend’s fraternity.


Is this really me? I’ve entered into a contract where

I’m applauded for grasping how light bulbs work and

Where I’m afraid to walk home in a grey sweatshirt.


I’m just staying in this weekend. 


“Want to hang?” he asks.


“Just let me know.”


Read: 12:21 AM.


–Elizabeth Lacey

(inspired by Solmaz Sharif)

125: The Noise That Won’t Go Away

That snore in my room.

That leaf blower in my room. It revs itself up to send away fallen leaves. Yet it won’t turn on. It just keeps on churning, attempting to find the air to function. Once found, it puffs out air and silences itself for a while.

That spoon stuck in the garbage disposal in my room. It rattles when the switch is flipped. No one knows why the sink is clanking. Back and forth, the spoon moves between the blades. It keeps on clinking until the utensil is removed.

That old radiator in my room. The clonking from inside the pipes that can be heard throughout. It is almost summer; the heat no longer needs to be turned on. Once shut off, the pipes take a while to stop moving.

That mail truck moving over potholes in my room. The car bumps up and down, the underneath hitting the cracks of the street. It stops every few houses to drop off papers. Rough driving ceases for only a while.

That opened bottle of soda in my room. Once the cap is twisted off, the bubbles sizzle to the surface. They encapsulate the tongue. The pink organ is stimulated and cannot rest. Rest only comes when the soda goes flat.

That damn snore in my room.  

via See Jane Write: 365 Blog Post Ideas and Writing Prompts

Heard From Here

I pull the dirtied string, the window nude,

Stripping left blind higher, faster than right.

Space well-hidden between homes exposes

A tree stuck thin between the house cracks.


Laughter unleashed into streets, hyenas

Howling at the moon from the pavement.

A year ago my laugh was with these above,

Our sound in unison with pitch and tone.


It is a song best sung together. But now

Depression sings the taste of sour grapes.

Here, dried fruit falls from vines onto the floor,

Ants circling around the concord spheres.


I can still hear those laughs from here. Yet

If I push myself, it’s only back to sleep.


–Elizabeth Lacey

with me

with black, with white, with used to be white,

with few miles on carpet, with tumbleweeds of dust filled

brown hair, with a trim every six months. with pepto-bismol,

with grandpa’s stethoscope, with a bottle

of rumchata, with hazy memories of last night, with a full

face of make-up. with thirty-six ddd, with gender,

with romance, with sandalwood, with eponine in the rain.

with obsessive, with compulsive, with disorder.

frustration, stress, hope.

with acceptance, with freshly plucked

eyebrows, with forehead kisses. as fourth cousins,

as pisces, as killian jones. with sandy ankles,

with high-waisted jeans, with left leg falling asleep, with

insomnia. with thinking, with over-thinking,

with remembering, with small gold hoops on the first day of

school, with samantha the american girl doll, with toys

used when feeling lonely. with swiping left,

with a closed mouth smile, with two

different ears. with the same thirteen colonies,

with an inside porch, with the powerhouse of the cell, with

mitochondria. with eczema, with prescriptions at

CVS, with medicine, with confusion about the future, with fear

of being second place. with disregard, with an

order of pad see ew, with ice left from a thai iced tea.

— Elizabeth Lacey

(inspired by canvas and mirror by Evie Shockley)