Time to Move Out



One tiny kitchen a fairy could clean,
a counter for three, for broccoli
and peas, whatever they need.

That old purple love seat
freed from the chi
that got trapped in the corner,
old socks and soda cans
filling the space where
you might have relaxed,
where your legs might have
slung over violet arms.

Wind chimes and vines
on the tight patio, any old
view you can rent as a runaway
mom, a pool for the kids
and a lease between
you and the mess, the one
that you married, the wedding
you paid for, angel-cake
shaped like a gift.


Laurie Barton studied French literature at Mills College before completing her Master of Fine Arts at Antioch University Los Angeles. She is a Best of the Net finalist and two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. In 2008, she won the New Southerner Literary Prize in Poetry. Her work has appeared in juked, Word Riot, Jabberwock Review, and The Missing Slate. Barton lives in southern California and teaches English to speakers of other languages.

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