There is a space right in the center of a woman’s breast,
stretching between her waiting arms,

that craves a baby. It aches to be filled with the
soft bounce of new flesh, the warmth of new life.

It was here that I felt the wishbone break and
suddenly Thanksgiving was over. Celebration was

tossed aside as I snapped apart and became empty.
The hollow of the marrow leaked a plague stain –

bright red between my thighs. The world was silent
noise, all scurrying and rushed, while whispers passed

and the nurse stepped back as I shattered on her table.
She said, “There is no heartbeat.” and I thought instantly

of a washing machine – the steady thwump, thwump, thwump,
and knew that someone had turned it off.

Someone had snapped the wishbone and I was all
hollow marrow and no heartbeat.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

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Photo by Sarah Graybeal, Unsplash

Design by Book Genesis

Our Old House

Our old house had paneling on the walls –
slick with lacquer
that peeled up at the corners
in thin, wispy sheets,
the shedding skin of a home in

We hung photos on the walls
so that there were sparsely visible
little brown lines
framing each memory.

We turned that paneling into
our projected hippocampus,
because we could no longer rely
on our mind to remind us
from month to month
that we did, in fact,
love one another.

Our conversation was an impregnated thing
growing silently between us
with each reviling word that slipped
off loose tongues
and shattered in the light of our
cracked bedroom window.

We carried Medusa
hidden behind our teeth
so when we opened wide to let loose
a barrage of violent expressions,
we turned one another to stone –
frozen in the ache that can only be caused
by one who loves us enough
to speak the truth
and use “Sorry” as an empty balm.

And the day we became I,
when the old Thunderbird rolled in heavy dust clouds
down the driveway,
framed by Summer’s green tongued corn,
I never packed our pictures.
I left them hanging in their little square blocks
framed by the yellowed ash from
our woodstove, because

we needed reminding of who we had been
and I
only wanted to forget.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

I think it is true, that it is only possible to hate and to hurt those that we truly love. In that spirit I was reminded today of the past. Thank you to MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie for the wordle prompt.

Photo by Annie Spratt, Unsplash

Design by Book Genesis

Come See Me at Chesapeake College

For those of you in the Maryland area, I will be visiting Chesapeake College on April 16th for a Poetry Panel. Myself, along with two other local poets, will be taking part in numerous poetically themed events throughout the afternoon.

I will be presenting numerous pieces, including ones from my upcoming book, I Am. You can check out the trailer for that here.

I hope you can make it out to the college and meet me!

If you’d like more information, please contact me and I will answer your questions.

3:30 AM

3:30 AM
and I am awaiting the hallucinogenic memories
that slip into my dreams
like we slid,
slick, hot bodies,
across the yellow vinyl of that ugly couch.

3:32 AM
and you are my gateway drug,
the little pill I pop under my tongue
while the shadow growth on your face
rubs a passionless rash
across my cheek.

3:35 AM
and I am as flat and stiff beneath you
as a carcass under the steady,
sharp beak of a vulture,
I pull away from you,
scalded by your touch.

3:48 AM
and your breathing has deepened
to the steady rhythm of slumber
and I dream of yellow vinyl couches
and the first time you slid,
slick, hot body, and shattered me like an ancient mosaic.

© Laura  A. Lord, 2016

I just finished a book, The Pilot’s Wife by Anita Shreve, and without spoiling the story for you, because it is amazing and you should read it, the main character spoke numerous times about passion leaving a relationship as the time past. It inspired this piece, along with the wordle from MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie.

Don’t forget to sign up for my mailing list and receive your free I Am Coloring Book!

Photo by Ales Krivec, Unsplash

Design by Book Genesis

I AM – Official Trailer

I hope you enjoy my new book trailer for my  upcoming book, I Am! More info to come soon on a pre-sale date!

Remember to sign up for my mailing list, if you haven’t already for a monthly newsletter with exclusive information on my upcoming works, submissions, sales, signings, and other cool stuff! For a limited time, when you sign up you’ll receive a free downloadable coloring book.

Good Intentions

In the first few weeks after I met you,
you formed the habit of placing your hand
on the back of my neck
while I drove.

I thought it cute.

You were addictive
in your senseless charm
and I was a careless heart,
struggling to keep time
with the beat.

Decidedly, the tempo increased
and the knuckles scraped
a tap-dance slide
across concave cheekbones,
stark and thinned
by my hungering smile.

I thought to terminate the dance.

I thought to notify you of my intentions.

I thought to step back from passions raised
and push my narrow chin in the air,
to settle my shoulders back
and stiff as rigor mortis
my words would fall
and in their strength
would not break as they hit the ground.

Instead, you showed me the weakness of my spine
and your hand on my neck
tightened its grip
and my words fell hollow in the squeeze.

I watched them shatter,
as only sparkling good intentions can do.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

Sometimes thoughts drift to darker times. Regardless, I am thankful to MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie for their wordle prompt this week.

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Photography by Jairo Alzate, Unsplash


Big Helpers

Every home boasts its own unique dialogue. We form terms of endearment that may, or may not, sound so endearing to foreign ears.

For instance, I call my husband an asshole with the utmost love and honor I can give him. He is a wonderful, caring, loving man. He is my best friend.

And he’s also an asshole. He is. He’ll tell you himself. And at midnight when he turns the lights off while I’m in the bathroom and I open the door to pitch black only to have him leap from the floor at my feet and scare the piss out of me…he is, in fact, an asshole.

We also say things like, “Seatbelt stupid.” Which is the family friendly reminder to buckle up.

Or “I’m a biiiiiggggg helper.”

Helping me with the dishes…

A photo posted by Laura A. Lord (@captivecrystals) on

This is a big helper.

Big helper.

A photo posted by Laura A. Lord (@captivecrystals) on

This is another example of a big helper.

Big helpers are characteristically famous for not actually helping. They do something, however small, and immediately claim fame for doing it.

While this is sure to provide a good laugh in my house, followed by pats on the head and goading comments of, “Oh what a big helper you are!” and “Aren’t you such a good boy/girl?” or “Awww, want a cookie?”…the world is full of people who actually believe they need some kind of recognition for being a decent human being.

We are living in a country where there is a serious possibility that the biggest bully to ever kill, skin, and wear a mongoose as a hairpiece stands a chance of becoming our President. We have formed a panel of liars, thieves, and bullies to promote the never-ending message of violence and hate.

And we’re sitting back, watching it happen. Voting this term is difficult. The choices suck, at best, and the few shining beacons of light (*coughBerniecough* my only voter opinion drop, I promise) are forced to battle for a stage against the reality star drama of the popular candidates.

I continue to hear people say that they aren’t even going to bother to vote, that there is no point, that their voice doesn’t matter, or the choices are too bad…

I’d like to respond, “Suck it up.”

I’d like to say, “Too fucking bad.”

Oh yes…

A photo posted by Laura A. Lord (@captivecrystals) on

I’d like to tell them, “It’s your responsibility and if you jerk around with that, you get absolutely no right to complain when this shit show hits main stage.”

Instead, I’ll ask this: Won’t you all please go get yourself a little I Voted sticker? You totally deserve it. You did something amazing.

What a big helper you are.

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Snow Race

The sun lit a glare on the snow
like daybreak had suddenly opened in the field
and a new sun was rising beneath
the deer tracks and branches heavy
with the irregular garland of ice.

You lurked at my periphery,
just enough out of the way that I had to
adjust to see you clearly.

It seemed the structure –
the baseline of you and of me –
had slowly been falling apart.

We were degrading as the
foundation of this house.

We were slipping concrete blocks
and creeping marshland.

We were winter snows
and bare feet, and you said,
“I’ll race you to the barn.”

I remember the thin slide
of my t-shirt and the way the cold air
terrorized my flesh.

There was a glint in your eyes,
something wild that sparkled,
and with each discarded piece of clothing
we were bare to one another
for the first time
in a long time.

And I think then, you saw me –

racing across the snow,
my bare feet leaving dark little
tattoos across the perfect crust –

I think you saw me and I know,
for a while,
I forgot all about us.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

There are bright moments in any ending. Yesterday we told our children the truth about my husband adopting them. We told them about their birth fathers, and it was, by far, the most difficult discussion of my life. This brought back so many memories, especially about how things ended. I remember this day in the snow and thank MindLoveMiserysMenagerie for her wordle that inspired me to think of this.

Photo by Roksolana Zasiadko, Unsplash

Photo Design by Book Genesis

Remember to sign up for my mailing list today to get your free coloring book! I promise I will only email you once a month!



You are the delicate fuchsia flower –
a tempestuous dancer frozen in the middle
of a lustrous pirouette. I found myself
stargazing in the deep purple of
your petals, as if I were watching
for Orion to slip over the knoll
and appear, there, in the soft skin
of your eyelids, closed in fraudulent
sleep. I traced the sunlight, bright
and thick as yolk, as it draped along
your leg. I passed the stain of your
birth, there, at the back of your knee
and minded the flutter your
lashes made. Your breath stuttered,
in spite of your control and I gave myself
up to your kiss – a slow drip of laudanum
that numbed my lips and set you
to dancing, again.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

All things considered, I never dated a dancer. I did have a very passionate fling with a gymnast, but it burnt out quickly. Thank you to MindLoveMiserysMenagerie for the wordle prompt that inspired some memories this morning.

Photo by Matthew Wiebe, Unsplash

Design by Book Genesis

Guest Poet On Ink & Quill: Laura. A. Lord

Today I’m being hosted as a guest poet on the amazing Ink and Quill site! Please head on over and shown Jennifer some love. Take a moment to read some of her beautiful work while you are there.


laura a

It is with great pleasure, I introduce you to Ink and Quill’s feature guest, Laura. A. Lord. Laura is a very talented poet and I’ve really enjoyed finding out more about her. Her poetry is incredible, edgy and original. Please, follow the link to check out more of her wonderful writing.

NAME: Laura A. Lord
COUNTRY: United States
AGE: 30

Please tell us a little about yourself:
I’m 30 years old and live on the Eastern Shore of Maryland with my husband and three children. I have been writing since I was a teenager, but didn’t start publishing my work until my mid-twenties. I have published six collections of poetry and vignettes and one children’s book.

‘Poetry is by far my favorite form to write and what I spend most of my time on.’

In fact, my newest collection set to be released this summer, I Am, in entirely poetry…

View original post 1,170 more words

What Are You Writing?

Every. Single. Time.

I can be one of the most elegant poets (at times) and still haven’t seemed to master the English language enough for every day conversation – especially when that conversation turns around to my writing. Instantly I transform into this blubbering, stumbling, hem-hauling fool who stares off into the distance while turning a very unflattering shade of fire-engine red.

It’s pathetic.

Tell me I’m not alone! Does this happen to you? Are you actually good at speaking to people about your writing? If so, what’s your secret? If not…it’s okay. We were never the “cool kids” anyway.

Shared on Pinterest, here.