Julia Wohlstetter





A book is always night

We recite, love to look, I love to look, everybody loves to look

Sometimes we walk in museums, those perhaps of memory

Arthur says, this will be bad for you

Madame Daphné adjusts her red sweat suit

As a small pawn falls slowly off the table



Spring stages pleasuramas on the banks of the Seine

Clara asks que dit la silence?

We eat some more folkloric yogurt

I stare at space until it arranges letters

A stranger says, you are very young to be here

I write The Croissant Also Rises



A chair is always a woman

A story about the darker matters, what lies at the center of the earth

An old movie plays on the jetty at Orly

You point to a ring inside the tree and say, this is where we are

The clock strikes three times

I write a memoir called Famous Last Words



Mon tailleur est riche

We drive home in a blizzard

Clear of the moonlight in Vermont

Strangers crowd around my bed at night and stare

I start the same story and I play all the characters

Rose lets me brush her hair, just once



A dream divides my body

We kill time with chocolate behind the Pompidou

Men empower clocks

Men give me names like Legs, Bitch, and Chérie

I was promised transformation, instead given order

I say I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine



Parataxis attacks us

In the doric slumber of winter

Memory repeats signs so that I exist

I write mouth-trellis and shipsunkwrist

I guard the necklace of your names

Feminine, Marvelous and Tough



A woman is a progressive shipwreck

An interruption of becoming

There are only two types of stories:

A stranger sets out on a journey

A stranger comes to town

Don’t be a bitch, he says, so I am



We meet in the old hours, you call me your ghost

I say fabulous things like nylon, glass, and plastic

I run around naked with a bag on my head

A woman is a city

Inside an algae of shadows

Zoe says maybe someday you’ll decide to be angry



My heart’s aflutter!

I come home to find many new rooms in my house

The clock strikes twenty-seven times

Asa says love is a condiment

Arthur says Isn’t this what you wanted?

Sadness puts on its’ puritan hat



Another pothole hotline makes me laugh

Watching my friends use tinder

I imagine breaking everything inside the store

My hands make simple work

Eros holds a mirror to a young woman as a horse plays the lyre

I turn on my hag fire



A woman is always a fork

But somedays I am my gloves

Somedays the coffee doesn’t taste right and I make it again, and again

There is one man who still lives inside my sleeve

He says This Will Be Bad For You

La forme d’une fille change plus vite, helas, que la coeur d’un ville



A pen is always a man

A spire of lonesome, a trust iceberg, a risk log

I find you crying in front of a horse

The door opens onto endless series of doors:

A threat of Aunts

A confusion of Havanese



I want to be the girl with the most cake

My collection of limbs scattered

Through his gaze & his gaze

In patternless patter of anxiety

I write please and repeat, please repeat

My boot clicks, and then another, and another and another



Another man says chaton, I laugh bottles

The tourist asks if he can take a picture of my tattoo

I say, someone is thinking of you

I write sibilant, incarnadine and porous forest

What is beauty without a chorus?

Moonlight comma disaster



A kiss cannot be enough snow

I sit in the garden and blink five years

Fog is too easy, perfect shape for a ghost

I write moral compass then replace it with calm ass moss

None of the buildings on Belmont are lonely

How come the dead rule us?







Julia Wohlstetter is a poet living in Portland, Oregon.  Author of the chapbook “Please and Please,” her work has appeared in Reality Beach, 1001 Journal, Bodega Magazine, Metatron-Omega and The Chapess Zine.  She holds a BA in French and Photography from Bennington College.