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"A New Year" by Alison Lubar




The difference in mourning and morning

is you. Dawn takes away anything “our”s,

transforms it to “or,” a choice between two,


as usual. Wordplay is subtraction and

addition. A limit is the fifth tally mark,

slashing the rest on a friday. I do not live


just for the weekend. To lament another

turning. It all becomes heavier with age.

I start letting myself eat sugar and potatoes.


I add almond creamer to my coffee, and think

about the bees so bored of these blossoms


they drop dead instead of sucking up

more nectar. They’d rather starve.


Even the birth of a new year

is a grief, all erosion. In the spring,


I’ll plant lavender and scatter

an heirloom wildflower mix


around the shed. How can I send you a poem

without carrier pigeons? Who is next


on the extinction list? The future greys,

as do our days. Fresh air gives me


a hangover, and I am

out of stamps. I’ve already


swallowed them all. And I have already

donated all of my letters


to the crematory,

their black smoke


rising toward

dawn.




Alison Lubar is a queer, nonbinary, & mixed-race poet, who works to bring mindfulness practices, and sometimes even poetry, to young people. They’re the author of four chapbooks, two published in 2022, and two forthcoming in 2023. Find out more at http://www.alisonlubar.com/ or on Twitter @theoriginalison.

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