May 16, 2012

Bobbi Lurie


The patient people who work with the insane are not my kind of people. They are too entertained by the oddness of the inmates and act with a superior sense. I, on the other hand, am odd myself, searching for adherents to my view. The inmates know me as such and agree with me frequently.

I Drink with My Thinking Problem Intact

If only I could decipher the mightiness of the sword and put it into pen, I might free myself. But then again, I sought this duration of loss. I wrapped a fabric of lace around my body, stood stiffly at the garden party and asked to be captured.

Nothing I Carry Can Ever Save Me

I go through the boxes of once precious possessions, dredging up memories as I touch them: moth eaten, decomposing fibers. Swollen hands, shoulders, wrists, fingers in pain from packing so much crap in cardboard boxes: this is how the world ends: in dust and disintegrating filaments and fibers.


Bobbi Lurie has worked as a visual artist and therapist. Her essays, short stories, and poems have been widely published in the U.S. and England. Her three poetry collections are The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn and Grief Suite, all published by CW Books.

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