Extinction | J.L. Lapinel

Frost tree tips huddle, shoulders touching
and tiny lights slip between sleeping branches while
nature’s silken body reclines in icy sleep
Gritted paths swerve to catch feet of
ancient dirt, crawfish stone and mud
the haunting rocks of fern and dust
flat, fill hollow spores with slanted thoughts

The locusts and hillside are dense with forgetting
We grip the blood of earth to see what more
we can push between our fingers
Light follows us into damp and quiet places
Under rays of darkness that stick
Under our nails
and lead to doors that pound with that threat
of danger coming through feet of
wanton anger

The hollow echo of a pipe bounces
Scraping and dragging along pavement
as a jet exhausts
through the sky
a needle sewing
through the clouds, trailing silt ashy signatures

That damp air pushes dead leaves
along the brown grass patchwork of mud and dead percussions
and in the streets of orange musk
bipeds lift their lashes to eat the memory of tomorrow
a myopic buffet
While a quiet whispers the forgetting
to eyes and lips and teeth that part to
callously remember the forgotten words and
understand them anew


J.L. Lapinel is a poet and educator. Her work appears in Minnie’s Diary Anthology, Impressions: A Collection of Poetry, Quill Books, Front Runner Quarterly, Wide Open Magazine, The Cambridge Collection, The North American Poetry Review, Odessa Poetry Review, Minetta Review, The Tin Penny. Her poem Little People was nominated for 2019 Pushcart Prize.

She is an MFA candidate at UMass Amherst and is very much enjoying living in New England after having lived half of her life in and around New York.