Time Lapse
In a time lapse, nothing happens smoothly. / Red horns quake as they splinter / from limbs on the bottlebrush.
“Time Lapse”
A hummingbird is pulled like a bull toward the loudest reds, lands on the inmost branch to preen
the arching back of her green torso. I think of the sentence
while I lowered myself to a frameless, twin-sized mattress:
Your neck looks sobreakable.
Red horns quake as they splinter from limbs on the bottlebrush. It was
walking around the cemetery I liked to visit when the weather was good,
And what did I say to him, Thank you
Gabrielle Bates works for Seattle's poetry-only bookstore Open Books: A Poem Emporium and co-hosts the podcast The Poet Salon. Her work can be found in the New Yorker, Poetry Magazine, Ploughshares, and The Offing, among other venues. She is originally from Birmingham, Alabama. www.gabriellebat.es
More in this series
Great Canadian Novel
As if a country was not an ever-tightening feeling in my chest. As if poetry was not an ever-tightening.
Haibun on the High Bun
everything shifts as she twists and spins her hair, lifting it to chignon. / So self-assured, as if the gesture were always hers
Intellectual Property as a Result
recently I signed a contract / which stipulates anything / I conceive of as a result / of the job belongs to the job
