Issue 2.3
Fall 2022
Justin Lacour
Sunday, 10:25 a.m.
Five days sober, standing
in the church parking lot,
a stranger pulls up and
hands me a sticker: “I
am the BEST at who
I am!” and drives off.
I worry my hands will
tremble when I peel it
off and slap it on my shirt.
Please don’t laugh.
I’ve fucked up so much.
The slightest forgiveness
nearly shatters me.
Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry. He is the author of three chapbooks, including My Heart is Shaped Like a Bed: 46 Sonnets (Fjords Books, 2022), and This Fire forthcoming from Ursus Americanus Press.
Justin's Book Recommendations
As I was writing this poem, I think I was reading Before the Door Of God: An Anthology of Devotional Poetry, edited by Jay Hopler and Kimberly Johnson (Yale, 2013). It's an interesting book with a weirder selection of poets than similar anthologies.
Reflection
This work isn't much. Just an effort to capture a minute to five minutes of a given day. I tried to consider each line as moments of significance popping out during the passage of time, so I paid more attention to line breaks/white space than normal. I hope the work is embarrassing in all the right ways.