2 Poems by Arlyn LaBelle

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Girl threat

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She learned her hunger from

the southern sun which laps

against car windows, blistering

pool water until it glitters like

a knife. Who could blame her,

her body licking like fire, known

to itself as her hips hum little

laundry songs. When you hear

hushed voices, you lean in.

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A poem about my mother

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I am writing a poem about my mother

the way I always do, through water, so

her body dilates. I cannot write her arms

a discernible length, her hands open

or closed, only her figure above and

the places I knew to go under my skin

where I could chime quietly. She taught

me how to hold my breath as she had

for years. I heard that she could sing

before I knew her.

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Arlyn LaBelle is a poet and legal assistant living in Austin, Texas. Her poems have appeared multiple times in the Badgerdog summer anthologies as well as Words Work, Persona, The Missing Slate, The Blue Hour, LAROLA, JONAH Magazine, The Oddville Press, Songs of Eretz, Cease, Cows and The Southern Poetry Review.

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