When they look inside

your chest, the sonogram calls


your heart an orchid, each

petal pulpy and abnormally


palpitating. You and I

both imagined it would


behave this way, flowering

too big where it shouldn’t.


We have both pressed

our ears to conch


shells and clocked

your heart as it


gallops into another season,

another faulty


bloom. Perhaps it is just

a symptom of aging, to worry


like this, with every sense,

in every room of our bodies.


Perhaps it is

wrong of me to be so critical


of your heart—to want it

to speak more like mine.



Love Poem with a Lack of Conception


In our raunchy love

we ache for household—


welcome mat, shoes strewn

or orderly, a kitchen


made of granite and cutting

blocks. We finger fuck


cumulous clouds

and yearn for a home


and a mortgage and a child.

How many times have we tried


to become



during a storm of our sameness?

When we bleed it betrays


us in every way a color can.

I take off your shoes.


I clean you. We lay down

in no home

                  in particular.



Kayleb Rae Candrilli is author of What Runs Over with YesYes Books. They serve as an assistant poetry editor for BOAAT Press and live in Philadelphia with their partner. You can read more here.