Gone Lawn
a journal of literature
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Gone Lawn 45
Summer solstice, 2022

Featured artwork, Page Blue, by Güliz Mutlu

New Works

Rachel Lipscomb

small towns share mouths, winona

it was august when you called me up / i remember because my bangs were sticking to my forehead so i had to pin them back / which i hate doing, it never suits my face / before leaving, i put on my new trinket / a petty theft in lieu of a few that became many / a blue cowboy boot stuck onto my tshirt / then headed to oxford, to faulkner, to you

in the months that have passed / eleven, to be exact / i have sat down and unpacked the distance between us / this once held an apology but i now know better than to eat myself for others appeasements / this once said that i remember it differently / that this time i said yes and follow your hand with mine / but i don't / i grab it and take your fingers out of me / i get up and leave / i don't waste time asking you to forgive me / i forgive myself for thinking i ever should

it was cold and you bloodied your knee running out of some bar on the square / some secret grilled cheese speakeasy / got a text in the linoleum booths / one of the men who assaulted me accused me of assault / i went to your apartment sobbing / you comforted me with your fingers / i never said thank you for that / nothing fixes a body that was hurt like more foreign touching

lovis dies

it always rains /on thursdays / my mom drives me to sonic before sewing, order popcorn chicken and cherry limeade / on thursdays / we catch the newest movie at the malco twenty minutes from our house / on thursdays / my grandpa comes over and we ride horses across the honeysuckled levee into the back fields of dandelion / on thursdays / i eat oreos with peanut butter after school, feet propped against the wooden entertainment center leaving grease marks as i watch mtv / on a thursday / my exuncle buried me beneath beanie babies in my old toy chest / on a thursday / i swam in the lake behind my grandpa’s house going home smelling faintly of mildew and sunbaked fish / on thursdays / i think about going to the baseball game to pretend to be interested in the boys who play / on thursday / my mom found photos in an office drawer that / we tucked away in the shelves of our minds / under a file named lovis dies / which, to the unfamiliar, means / on thursday / my love died

Rachel Lipscomb is a poet from Mississippi who writes about the south, queerness, identity, girlhood, and more. She currently lives in Memphis with her dog Fleabag Tina Fey. Instagram: rachellipscomb