Matea Kulic – Baba Vera

Baba Vera


I join her in grass that is burning.

Her frock squares her shoulders

broad and brown, her face

smaller than mine and pulling.


Past fields and the rigid house,

we whip gold

in our calves, past

the meadow. Past open.


Sloven winds cure thighs

rough on last latch

rough on leather

eyes smoking lavender.


I dreamt her a lone aloe

palms extended. Heaved


base. Stripped spines,

peeled back saying

tongues don’t heal inside.


Balm. Like green grass rain

I paste her face, deep lines

stretched back to earth.

And bottle up what remains.


Matea Kulic is a writer and literacy tutor living in Vancouver. She has been published in local literary magazines including RicePaper, The Liar and The Haro, the last one to which she also contributes as an editor. She keeps an online blog at: Between work and writing, she makes time for swimming.


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