Jesse said the source of thunder
is the oyster in the clouds.
He told us, the baby sheep
we ate for dinner died
standing in its field & it knew it was its time.
Once he was a puppy who had fallen from the sky.
He was looking for a new home. The people
he had lived with before would feed him only
candy & eggs.
My mind speaks in prose.
Memos, grant proposals, what’s for dinner.
I am not free. Though freer than most.
Today the gray April rain holds me fast–
not loose, my mind tight as a board clamped
and waiting for the glue to dry.
When my father was dying, his brain invaded
by a growth the size of an egg (but not smooth–
rather, lumpy and tentacled, reaching for his mind’s
far regions), he told us: the air today is generous.
If I had a balloon I would not be afraid.
I’d like to swim out and have a beer.
Accidental Poetry
Laura Buxbaum (she/her) lives and writes in Maine, where she also raises dairy goats, makes music, and runs on local trails. Her poems can be seen or are forthcoming in Thimble Lit, Rat’s Ass Review, Brawl, Verse-Virtual, Gyroscope, Writers Resist, Painted Pebble, La Rotonde, and elsewhere. She was a finalist in the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance 2026 Literary Awards in the Short Works in Poetry Competition. Her chapbook, Roadkill and Other Encounters, will be published by Kelsay Books in the fall. She can be found at https://laurabuxbaum.com or on social media: https://www.facebook.com/laura.buxbaum; https://www.instagram.com/buxbaumlaura/