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,

she says.

 

 

 

 

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.

Filed under: Poetry

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