Writing

A collection of words written by Kyra Lambert and a list of publications her work is featured in as she works on her first Chapbook for publishing, 'A plea to the prairies'.

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Petal Projections, Summer & Winter Issue

Scavengers Literary Magazine by Querencia Press 

Monthly contributor to Reverie Literary Magazine 

Art Writer for Eastern Edge Gallery in St. John's, NL

Contributing writer for 'Grief as Shape Shifting' by Mother Wort Rose

Winter and Summer publication for Petal Projections Magazine

Contributing writer for Sage Cigarettes Literary Magazine

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Morning Waxwing

Each step 
Makes the staircase moan
Alone in the house 
One is gone to the river
One is gone to the office
I fill a water glass 
And look out our kitchen window
Towards our four feeders
There is only one this morning

Unusual for this bird 
Unusual for this house 
Unusual for this hour 
She turns her head to fill out the picture
And 

I do the same

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The Little Hours

In the little hours
A crow makes himself known 
The moon slides into the west 

and

We writhe lazily in crisp linens
Rough on elbows and heels 
I pull myself awake 

And 

Rub the hours of rest from my eyes 
The grey morning 
colours my apartment
the rooftops are veiled in fog  
and the chimneys are obscured by a familiar mist

I’m here once more

Standing at the edge
At the crest of autumn
Where the earth reclines
Into the death of 
The 
Sun

 

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Seafaring, 2023

Rough wool 
Rolls over knuckles 
And catches on calluses 
Pinched eyebrows
A tight mouth
The sun makes its little threats 
Over the cliff
And 
She calls you back
For another day of duty
Cold and ragged ropes
Rolling over knuckles
And you laugh
And you hang your head
Chagrined 
Because you find yourself

Wishing 

For 

Wool

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Burnt toes, 2023

I think I’ve burnt my feet
I call down to you 
The sand is so hot today
I whimper and take little shuffling steps 
Toward the lip of the ocean
Hungry for her relief 
For the cool wet 
For the cool wet
For the cool wet

and

We always joke
About my noble little feet
And their sensitivities
And look at how they’ve shown up
Just to prove you right

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Eyes out, 2023

I guess I’ll continue to look for you 
Sometimes
Out of the corner of my eye
Splinters of your image 
I guess I’ll continue to look for you
Look for your crooked smile in those that crack across cheeks
I’ll look for your walk in other’s gates
The way you’d slide your loafers
across the hardwood 
Just to keep your memory alive
I’ll keep looking
And Sometimes

I find you

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Gail, 2020

Gail 
She holds a vase with flowers 
From her garden 
Maybe 
Maybe she bought them from Dominion 
But in my mind they’re from the garden
She holds it against a sienna wall 
In a long white gown 
Unkempt fine hair 
Captured 
As she was about to tell the photographer
To hurry up and snap

The women of my family

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On Exhibition, 2019

You’re not actually confined to the exhibit in their head
She croaked from the chair beside my bed
Her head leaned back so a sliver of sun sat on her bottom lip
This seemed to punctuate her thought even further
The smoke from the spliff we shared
Curled and twisted around her exhale
I know how she tells which oranges are ready
I know how she smells when she first wakes up
And which stop signs in town she only pauses at 

but

To have a spiral interrupted by the perfect dance of words 
To quiet those feelings of confinement
She told me 
You’re not actually confined in the exhibit in their head

The latch is right there

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Maybe 

She sighed 
Backlit by the falling day
We spoke about the future
And she wondered aloud 

Will I ever do this

Will I ever accomplish that

Will I ever move there 

Will I ever complete this 

Then she stopped
Sighed again and said peacefully
“Maybe it's impossible” 

Just like that

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