Laurie Byro
Making Love in Another Language
Are we hushed into silence at the dizzying
couplets we make with our softest love lips?
When we talk deep into the night using thighs,
arms, buttocks, drawing long languid syllables
down our backs, here and here and there—
wet melodies while we speak meaning
and thought borrowed from your Neruda,
and my Whitman. Through spinning patterns,
I take you like a vowel into my mouth,
parse you into words that are scribbled
just outside the lines.
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Laurie Byro
lives off a dirt road in the backwoods of NJ. Her husband, Mr
Byro, is a soothsayer. He spends most of the night playing the banjo to
the cat. This gives Laurie space to create her breathless wordscapes.
She sees them as feral creatures which have escaped from the cage of
her imagination and established a free life in the shared world. She
likes it best when her poems run away from her, refuse food, bite the
hand that feeds them. Mr Byro plinks out Oh Susanna. The cat cries,
chases the poems into the woods. Sometimes after midnight she comes
back with bloody paws. Laurie is available for tupperware parties and
stag nights. She makes fondue and molds marzipan. She was born under
the sign of wanton desire. Her Mars and Neptune are perfectly
aligned. email Laurie Byro
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