Kathryn de Lancellotti
Sunbathe by Sara Lee (IG: @sblarts​; Twitter: @sblarts
https://sblarts.com/                                                                              
Kathryn de Lancellotti’s chapbook Impossible Thirst was published with Moon Tide Press in June 2020. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a former recipient of the George Hitchcock Memorial Poetry Prize. Her poems and other works have appeared in ThrushRust + MothThe American Journal of PoetryQuarterly West, and others. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Sierra Nevada University and resides on the Central Coast, California, with her family.

©2021 West Trade Review
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Stay Connected to Our Literary Community.  Subscribe to Our Newsletter
Home    About    Subscribe    Guidelines   Submit   Exclusives   West End    
Home    About    Subscribe    Guidelines   Submit   Exclusives   West End    
We Ate the Fruit in Season




My breasts
were the size

of handfuls,
golden pears.

My vagina
the size of my son.

Table grapes, wild
almonds, figs

were eaten by codling moths.
I faced the sky

with my eyes,
the nights

with my thighs.
The river rushed

the size of a river. 
I wanted nothing,

to turn to nothing,
to everything

It was my life: 

the tea kettle’s whistle, 
the elderberry housing the quail

the Psalms’ lost lamb
shaking in the shadow.

My tears were the size
of a mother’s, my womb

boundless, burden—nipples
calloused cream.

My hands were the size
of my lover’s soft cock. 

His seed was the size
of his seed.

We ate the fruit in season,
when clusters fell from the trees.