Celie Knudsen

“I’m a poet from Ogallala, Nebraska. This is my fourth year at camp.”

Selected Works:

“Untitled #1”

I should write a poem.

Some warm thing, some

deep thing, some firm thing.

Something that exists only

in your ribcage,

glowing,

something that has no place in any body

but yours, a poem that folds

itself to make room

for your bones,

your lungs,

that does not stretch the space between

your ribs,

but instead only is,

is only to be,

solid and safe,

existing just for one moment,

deep and lovely,

as your knee touches mine.


“Untitled #2”

Let desperate poetry through your skin

Let love exist on cheekbones and overflowing bookshelves

Let belly laughs and yellow into rooms

Let feelings of largeness and wantings of daintiness coexist.

Please lust after empty skies

Please collect accents like passport stamps

Please love roads and planes like still places

Please come home for the 4th of July

Please stay.


“How Pigeons Taunt”

This was God’s greatest joke: letting the pigeons own the sky.

because what kid hasn’t wanted to be an astronomer? Wanted

to feel the planets with their fingertips, trace the stars

with their teeth, we have all wanted to sit on clouds without

falling to our deaths and pigeons never seem to fall to their deaths,

they only shit on us,

the sky caressing the tips of their wings like a prayer, no,

like something too jubilant to be holy, the sky

dances praise songs to carry pigeons

along and pigeons, well-

they know exactly what we’re missing.

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