Laura Walker: California Poets Part 9, Three Poems

Laura Walker

December 22nd, 2025

California Poets: Part IX

Laura Walker

Three Poems

Prompt

Write a poem that does not confess to late-night honey raiding, thick ooze over knuckles and cuffs, but does not deny it either. How will you move between these possibilities, and what kind of dissonance will that movement create? Will the daylight outside your windows darken in response, pooling itself on the stove or the floor, or will the sight of kindergartners lining up for the morning bus finally and completely free you from the murk of self-regard? Listen to the song of the last kindergartner, hummed to herself as she waits. Is she an answer, or more of a question? And what shape will her world take, once she herself discovers countertops and circling flight?  Make sure the bus stays yellow throughout, and that she is safely aboard before you lick the honey, drop by drop, from your fingers.

Prompt

Write a poem that your mother adores, she really does, flowers or teakettles, burnt mountains or lace-fringed birds darting in and out. Make it toothsome and wary. Deliver her her epiphany, but let it be hollow and strange, let her hurry from it back to her crossword or the neglected weeding, let her soak the vegetables too long, let her spill water from the sink and not notice. Messages are arriving but they are not yours. Allow your mother room to roam, let her find the empty rooms she craves, dust-free and hollow, muffled silences prevailing. Let her sit a spell. Soon she will rejoin the world, and it will have her, but for now the poem cradles her as she once cradled you, often in moments of gratitude and satiation, but on this particular day simply tired, simply done, and waiting for you to sleep.

Prompt

Write a poem that is easily extinguished, a small ember or a candle nub, the hope that your ex loves you still. Let the poem braid a ribbon through your teeth. Hold your mouth carefully; feel the poem's fingers, gentle as dirt, gentle as rain. You long to ask it questions, but of course you do not. The poem is gone before you even realize it; close your mouth, finally, and probe the fabric with your tongue.

Author Bio:

Laura Walker is the author of six books of poetry and two chapbooks. Her seventh book, red, a reinhabiting of Little Red Riding Hood, will be published by Saturnalia Books in 2027. She grew up in rural North Carolina and now lives in Berkeley, California, where she teaches poetry and wrangles chickens.  Find more at www.laura-walker.com .