Poetry by Grace Lawrence

Slow Motion

I watch my faucet drip
tiny droplets of water.
I should turn the cracked
plastic spout, make it stop.
But I just stare.
So long that
each individual drop
slows down
into tears
that collect
in the bottom
of the porcelain basin.



You slept soundly,
breathed gently.
Our bodies pressed together,
a picture
deep in the pages
of the book I read.
Warm breath drifted down my neck,
shook my spine.

I did not want to wake you
when I reached out,
pressed my warm hand
against the frosted window.
Held the cold in my palm;
traced patterns
on the frozen glass.
My finger moved to my lip,
and I tasted winter on
my tongue.


The Bog

smooth glass surface untouched
black as night
and miles deep

white stars shoot across the top
moving steadily
in all directions
pure unadulterated chaos

i want to dip my hand
feel the thick black ink
from my fingertips
to hold the small stars in my palm
white bright light seeping between my fingers
before returning to the blackness

it sounds dangerous
so instead
i throw the rock

waves ripple across the never ending mass
that once was peaceful and
i am unable to contain my excitement
over the cataclysmic events
that just unfolded before my eyes