Three Poems by Kersten Christianson

Lemon Lavender Wings



to that space

of heat, gravel

parking lot,

gas pumps

lined by travelers,


that moment

your daughter

opens her palms

to you, reveals

the butterfly






A willing breeze

crumples paper


crisp birch leaves,

I cast my obstinance


to a blind summer

sun refusing to budge


from the high center

of the sky’s yurt.


Like this wind, I drift

between margins


of calm and agitation,

travel unfamiliar roads


of wavering foxtail,

Arctic cotton.






Musty, like your

grandmother’s closet

long unopened.


Mirrored doors slide

and rattle, accelerate

to an open road


of polyester, wool,

leather and spandex;

immaterial, for the right


price.  Strappy sandals,

Chanel clutch, mink stole,

bejeweled Maple leaf brooch.


From estate sale

to consignment shop,

the shuffle of goods,


of paisley scarves,

knitted sweaters, silky

pantsuits cruise the free-


way between departure

and destination.  Pick

your poison; fill a bag.


Kersten Christianson is a raven-watching, moon-gazing Alaskan.  She holds an MFA in Creative Writing through the University of Alaska Anchorage and recently published her first collection of poetry Something Yet to Be Named (Aldrich Press, 2017).  Kersten co-edits the quarterly journal Alaska Women Speak.  She blogs at