dude, baby

Kristen Hickey

man, darling: i almost bought you another shirt. almost drew back your hair. almost did a chicken soup drive-by. almost asked if you remember the dust in the darkness and the sunburst light bulbs and the fit of hand on throat. 

bro, honey: i’ve been thinking all day about the printing press of you. tendon on bone. where we start and end the same. matching cherry wood planks. mold blooming in the notches. stamps all backwards. ink still bleeding. 

dude, baby: i almost burned it down tonight. faulty logistics. old maps. all virtued out. keep on not knowing what to say. keep on reaching for something i swore i did bury. let’s scrape each other clean every night. let’s brand each other ephemeral in the morning. we must stop blinking. we must flee to the mountains. we must kiss goodbye. we must pretend we’re something else. we must press our joints so firmly together that my storm warning becomes yours. sorrow in the dip. sweat in the nails. semiprecious tongue. 

lover, lover: if i never spake that name yours again. could that be all right?

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Kristen Hickey is a merchant of rocks and a collector of haunted armchairs. In addition to poetry, she dwells in all sorts of speculative fiction. She currently resides in Houston, Texas.

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