by L.J. Culp

Here, the thrum of the Earth is buried.
It spirals upward
into sunlight streaming through glassless windows,
headstones whitening beneath the swirl of a sparrowhawk,
white hoods on slate-black mountains,
seaside cliffs that cut wind until it screams,
It ripples outward
into the jackdaw’s ice-white irises,
churches with wooden beams and unlocked doors,
lambs running through dew,
drystone walls carrying green blood,
It sinks
into the soft gums of teething calves,
seashells hidden in burial mounds,
blankets of moss beneath straight trees,
castles with grass floors.
Here, children are old,
and daffodils bloom for the dead.

L.J. Culp


L.J. Culp

L.J. Culp graduated from Colgate University in May 2020 with a degree in English (creative writing) and Russian. Her senior thesis was a poetry chapbook, Wandering Songs, in which “Wales” is the opening piece. She currently works as a writing instructor, circulation assistant and comedy improv coach in Williamsport, Penn. Her work also appears in The Lake.