A Poem by Laurie Filipelli

Laurie Filipelli

Laurie Filipelli

Laurie Filipelli is the author of a collection of poems, Elseplace, released by Brooklyn Arts Press in 2013. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming at apt, BOAAT, Coldfront, The Pinch, Redheaded Stepchild, The Rumpus, Salamander, So and So, and Xavier Review. She is the recipient of a Yaddo fellowship, and resides in Austin where she works as a writer, editor, and writing coach. 


Sleep: my stupid last-year
person, stooping to pick up

whatever falls (so much
with scraps of fever building 

a time machine—old cane,
Christmas needles). Awake

a chain hooks my Achilles.
The yard is small, the moon 

still on the neighbors’ side.
We are playing Orpheo

Looks Back. You hand me
fishtails, shimmering clues.

A guardhouse birded by
a porcelain cat. A trash bag

taking flight. When I step
on a scale, its metal arm

pushes me shorter. Between
one and ten, this pain

is a three which means
I am free to go home.