Lillian Fuglei

woman in white crop toplying on bed

Lillian Fuglei (they/she) is a lesbian poetess based in Denver, Colorado. She began writing poetry in High School, after a lifetime of attending open mics thanks to their mother. They bounce between poetry, journalism, and academia, hoping to find a home for her writing somewhere in between the three. You can find them on Instagram at literary.lillian or Twitter at LFuglei.

Featured Poet

Night Shift

Lucy says you work the 9 to 5, I skip
the dayshift, those boys who led me
to you must miss me nowadays, or
perhaps they know what became of us,
keep their eyes on the front door, stockroom
unlocked for you, to slip away from the me
of me, be left with the me of your making,
should I become material one more.
Lucy says she’ll take the night shift with me,
slip grocery stores and goodwills at the witching
hour, in case you’ve found a new job. She
brings tissues, her ears, her hands, her love,
leaves me only when I am spent from
the thoughts of you, the gash you left my
left ventricle, turned patchwork by her hand.
Lucy says she’ll never see you again
if she can help it. I couldn’t help it
the first time, but now so help me
god, or whoever is out there listening, my eyes
will never catch yours in a crowd again.
Lucy says she hopes in five years,
the songs feel like covers. Says she won’t
feel the tint of you on my lips, tongues
intertwining the melodies of you I once
sang. The songs, oh the many songs of you,
will feel like covers. She says it with this too
shall pass nonchalance, gaze intertwining mine.
Lucy says they will be dedicated to new lovers,
our old words recycled by my tongue, for him,
or her, or them, or whoever will come next.
Lucy doesn’t know the songs are hers now,
maybe they always have been, wrapped in the haze of you.
Lucy doesn’t know she deserves better than this
though, the covers drip saccharine sweetness of love, tainted.
There are original melodies of her, calling out
to my voice, my fingertips, my heart.


my lover curls
into me, on a tuesday
afternoon. she is

we do not speak
of her day, the hours
she spent pouring
out empathy, until
her heart was left
the same sparkling blue
of pool tiles after labor day.
drained, moments of laughter
and light live on in her

sun splits the blinds
warming our spines
through distorted glass
my hand takes hers
taps along to the beat
that played the first time
we saw yellow.