Emily Ramser

Perhaps it’s the light of the television sliding across your cheeks
that attracts me so,
or perhaps the curve of your eyelids
framed by those soft eyelashes
or the shine on your lips, recently licked
or the eyes, glinting blue
in the dark living room
or the scar tissue roughing
the knuckles I can’t stop
running my thumb across.

my love,
it’s the soft skin
above your waistband
or the gentleness
of the insides of your thighs and elbows.

Perhaps it’s the puzzled frown
stretched across your face,
furrowing those eyebrows,
raising your ears, sculpted
in supple curves
and the calves
along which
I run my palms,
as I sit beside you
on the couch,
watching your eyes begin to close
at the onset of the dreams.

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The moon is God’s fingernail,
the one she hit on the Earth’s crust,
breaking it from her,
when plowing
the world with her fingers
for the first planting
of sunflowers.

The only part of her,
left from before
she sacrificed her body,
cutting for fingers for each mammal,
toes for each bird and fish,
ears for the amphibians and reptiles
and her nose
for the mosquito and spider and fly.

Her torso went to the mountains,
her skin to the oceans,
her breasts divided
into equal mouthfuls
for every mother
her arms became the trees
and her legs
the rivers
and her face,
the sun

The only part
still left for us to see, hanging
in the night sky,
surrounded by the starry tears
she left from the pain
and the bloody galaxies
that grew from the wound.

The Woman With the Yellow Bike

A draft of short story I’m working on!

Emily Ramser

This is a draft of an excerpt of a short story I have been working on. Enjoy!


The bike looked like a scoop of banana pudding. It had white handles, a tan basket and yellow frame. Its tires were even white with the rims painted a happy pale yellow.

The woman walking alongside the bike had her scarf pulled up over her nose and mouth. The light tinge of her pink cheeks just barely peeked over the fabric. Her grey hat was pulled low over her ears and eyebrows.

Waiting until the woman gotten far enough of her that she wouldn’t hear, Jackie snorted. It wasn’t quite that cold. It was 18 degrees Fahrenheit not below negative 15 or something. She adjusted her own hat and kept walking.

The next morning the woman with the yellow bike walked past again, dressed in the same outfit. The only difference this time…

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Published at Cultural Weekly: “Pat Berryhill: Through An Artist’s Eye”

Emily Ramser

Check out my newest article up at Cultural Weekly! It looks at Winston-Salem artist and poet, Pat Berryhill. I talked with her about her work and inspirations. A phenomenal artist, she is beginning a new project via Art-o-Mat. To learn more, read here. Consider leaving a comment and potentially subscribing. It’s a pretty cool magazine, and it’s free. Double bonus.

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The green and white towel is yours.
The blue one’s mine
The sleeveless shirts are yours,
but I like to wear them sometimes.
My side of the room is a mess
because I don’t actually live here,
though we like to pretend that I do,
and while you’re at work,
I catalogue your books,
heat up leftovers,  play with your dog,
drink too much Dr. Pepper,
and wonder if one day
I’ll be the home,
you’re coming home to.