Axilla
by Julie Harms

I saw two plump petals
nestled like twin butterflies
beneath my thickening arms
                     —a sudden, sombering appearance.

The two blooms have never emerged before,
yet as suddenly as spring sings into being
I now meet two crowns of love
                     two crevices of comfort
                     two identic cornerstones of a temple
that I cannot turn away.

Oh this strange swelling season, and all
                      of its little
                      unfurlings!


Félelem (My Fear)
by Julie Harms

I should be afraid
to return to Hegyesd.
My soul must be wary
of the sweet trap waiting
in the dew that tips
each blade of fű,
in the Hungarian air
that kisses blushed cheeks,
in the arms of mothers
and small adoring hearts,
in the silver-linings that drape
every hegy.

I should be afraid to
return to Hegyesd, because
if I walk down the road to the park,
if I pass by the little mountains,
if I sing to the csillagok
of the Hungarian night sky,
I’ll fall in love again,
and isn’t falling such
a wondrous,
terrifying
thing?


When the Gargoyle Rose Up and Shrugged on the Side of Our Bed
by Julie Harms

neither of us were surprised.
He stooped his shoulders and we knew
it was our fault that he felt the cathedral
burning down to ashes.

Sanctity sometimes feels so fleeting,
so foreign, so Notre Dame,
separate from what has arisen between us.

We wonder who or what lit the flame,
and if we are safe amidst our pillows,
our shields from the cameras
catching our fiery wind.

We wonder if this gargoyle
won’t rile up the daunting fumes before us
and cause the roof of our love to cave in.

We wonder if the gargoyle
will lash out in his sorrow
because he’s not the man
he wanted to be.


Where Might You Look For Me?
by Julie Harms

Down Josephville Road
the first farmhouse on the left
will shine back at you,
its hydrangea-blue siding
ricocheting the sun.
A happy house—old, but happy,
still finding itself useful. 

You may look for me there,
stealing the still-beating heart
of an ancient American home,
sweeping its floors with my lengthy arms,
filling its walls with my simple songs. 

Come to the back porch,
No—not the front. Be wary of our lively spring,
the one bursting beneath the world of earth between us
and the sinking shed—you may just drown
in anticipation, if you step off the sidewalk
into its depths. 

Maybe we can fix it soon?

Remember, there’s almost no limit
to where you can go, what you can plant,
how many wild creatures you might find,
how far you can walk this land and yet still
hear the highway—
but first, please, come inside. 

Step into this truly man-made home, 
with its harsh wood floors and aching 
basement, its white oak door frames and stoic 
plaster walls, the shadows of crucifixes that once 
blessed every door—
 
O do you see how this home yields for me? 
Do you feel the cracks and crevices where 
it stores its years of memories? 
Do you sense it still thriving 
on the edge of our fingertips
with its slow and inevitable 
dying breaths?

 

About the Author

Julie Harms is a Midwest-based poet whose poetry you can find in the Mid Rivers Review, UMSL’s Litmag, and forthcoming in Goat’s Milk Magazine. She graduated with a B.A. in English from the University of Missouri-St. Louis, where she’ll return in the Fall of 2020 to begin her MFA in Creative Writing. In her spare time, you’ll find Julie either indulging in photography or reading innumerable books, usually historical fiction or Arthurian-esque tales—or literally anything to do with the Middle Ages.

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