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Laure-Anne Bosselaar-Bosselaar_200

Laure-Anne Bosselaar is a Belgian-American poet, translator and professor. She is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently, A New Hunger (Ausable Press, 2007). Her collection, Small Gods of Grief (BOA Editions), won the 2001 Isabella Gardner Prize for Poetry. She is the author of Artémis, a collection of French poems, published in Belgium.

Her poems have been published in literary magazines and journals including Ploughshares, The Washington Post, AGNI, Harvard Review, and have been widely anthologized. Her honors include a Pushcart Prize, a Bread Loaf Writers Conference fellowship, and she was a Writer in Residence at Hamilton College in NY State, and at the Vermont Studio Center.

She grew up in Belgium, and moved to the United States in 1987. She earned her M.F.A. from the Warren Wilson College MFA Program for Writers She taught poetry workshops in Colorado and co-directed the Aspen Writers’ Conference from 1989 to 1992. She is fluent in four languages, and has published poems in French and Flemish. She was a Breadloaf Fellow, was awarded the McEver Chair at Georgia Tech, taught at Emerson College, Sarah Lawrence College, at the College for Creative Studies at U.C. Santa Barbara, and is part of the founding faculty at the Solstice Low Residency MFA in Creative Writing Program of Pine Manor College. She is the widow of poet Kurt Brown and currently lives in Santa Barbara, CA. (From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.)

Sometimes being married is JUST LIKE THAT! LOL

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After a Noisy Night

The man I love enters the kitchen
with a groan, he just
woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.
A minty kiss, a hand
on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,
microwave. He collapses
on a chair, stunned with sleep,
yawns, groans again, complains
about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.
I want to tell him how
much he slept, how well,
the cacophony of his snoring
pumping in long wheezes
and throttles—the debacle
of rhythm—hours erratic
with staccato of pants and puffs,
crescendi of gulps, chokes,
pectoral sputters and spits.
But the microwave goes ding!
A short little ding! – sharp
as a guillotine—loud enough to stop
my words from killing the moment.
And during the few seconds
it takes the man I love
to open the microwave, stir,
sip and sit there staring
at his mug, I remember the vows
I made to my pillows, to fate
and God: I’ll stop eating licorice,
become a blonde, a lumberjack,
a Catholic, anything,
but bring a man to me:
so I go to him: Sorry, honey,
sorry you had such a rough night
hold his gray head against my heart
and kiss him, kiss him.


Picture Credit: web.fawc.org