Justin Lacour

Sonnet (April song)

So often, I’m in line at MO FOR LESS
TOBACCO, wearing one of the t-shirts I
got for free at the blood center, & think it’d
be nicer to be in your arms, drinking stout &
listening to Vic Chesnutt. I’ve felt like crying
all damn morning. It’s just me & the leaf blower
guys on the street. This day will disappear &
I won’t get to talk to you. It makes for a panic
on top of the panic of simply being honest while
still trying to be funny. (But if I wanted you to feel sorry
for me, I’d say I’m reading novels alone in the sarcastic
afternoon.) When you speak it’s like an animal breathing
deep inside an ice sculpture of the same animal. Even the
way you shake your umbrella is completely arthouse.

Sonnet (Tiny steps)

The woman at the discount grocery,
the one with the neck brace & the
has probably forgotten more than I know
about passion in sad rooms, but I
want to surprise you w/a serrated
valentine I hammered together, surprise
you w/a story of how a bird swooped down
& swallowed a venus flytrap, but the flytrap
gnawed a hole in the bird’s belly midair till
they both crashed by the orthodontics place.
You may say “That’s not even how it works,” but don’t
worry. This story is just for you. You love tenacious
venus flytraps & this is how we build our culture.

Sonnet (Sonnet beginning w/my neighbor Kenny)

Kenny says he’s rewatched The Blair Witch
w/fresh eyes. He sees a heretofore
unthinkable love triangle. I nod politely.
I wish the three beers I drank would wash
me back to you, even just to catch a bad movie.
Do you remember my dad when Blair Witch
came out? “Boy, go grab the camcorder &
make your father thirty million dollars.”
We shrugged & drove out into a night that
seemed to never end. That was then. Now, I
struggle to just keep our conversation going.
I could replace birds w/mechanical birds;
only you would notice. The wind’s turned
caustic; light still filters through the trees.
The light still tries, but now it has to try harder.

Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry. He is the author of three chapbooks, including My Heart is Shaped Like a Bed: 46 Sonnets (Fjords Books 2022) and This Fire forthcoming from Ursus Americanus Press.
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis (susanlewis.net) is the Editor-in-chief and founder of Posit (positjournal.com) and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom (winner of the Washington Prize), Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies such as Walkers in the City (Rain Taxi), They Said (Black Lawrence Press), and Resist Much, Obey Little (Dispatches/Spuyten Duyvil), as well as in journals such as Agni, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Conjunctions online, Diode, Interim, New American Writing, and VOLT.