In this time of men,
you have to remember your bedroom.
She is talking about cream,
an oleander in the froth,
about the shades
of periwinkle, real or imagined,
about the mosquitoes
that sometimes sit in your hand
waiting for you to take back your blood,
a line from tongue to heart,
to heart again,
a cutting of the milk
teeth on a bottle. Bury it
in the dog’s mouth.
A victory. An enzyme
better than anything
you’ve ever known.
She is the bicycle pedals pumping
faster. She kicks up dust behind you,
blinds the sky. She unwraps
the licorice candy and throws it
in the water, she watches
the salt eat it away.
Where do we all go in the end?
you ask her. It’s not about you,
When you google Krystin Gollihue, you will find pictures of her dog and an article about poetry graffiti. She has poems published in Quarterly West, Safety Pin Review, decomP, and Carolina Quarterly and is the design editor for Black Warrior Review. She lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama where she is currently reading area pets their horoscopes.