Evening Song


Love set you up

with a tight hot fist

Boy-love soured quickly

as they always do

but doesn’t the thought

of pineapple cull the same

spit as the real thing

You’ve got a mouthful

of want you’ve got to drip

Listen you’re by a window

and you’re looking at the glass

Spiderweb cracks the corpse

of a medium that gave up

Don’t you take this to your head

Ghost in the glass and what

matters what beyond

A clean bisection a pleasing

symmetry and listen

there are no other words

by which I mean this

Two mouths can touch cool pane

can cover splendor

of wet white teeth



Three weeks after Halloween


It’s still hot, and there’s no wind. The head

on the porch is rotting from the inside out.


Like most objects we don’t know what to do with

we eschew the woods and decide instead to destroy.


No baseball bats in the garage

but a two by four will do, your hands clasped


awkwardly around the base and you

raise it up, the plank stark against the trees.


When you cave the head in I feel a knife made of ice

slide neatly between all of my ribs.


Orange  and candles litter the ground like viscera.

The imposition of crisis upon neutrality is in itself


a crisis, or at least its daughter. This man could kill

me. You could kill me. The act would not be difficult


for you. The splitting takes three blows. You rise, breathing

heavy with effort. Put your hand on my shoulder.


Put your hand on the back of my head. I cannot help

but conjure the allegory. You kiss me. I feel


your sweat on my cheek. Disavowal of panic only

increases the panic, becomes an object


I don’t know what to do with. It lives in a small cave

at the back of my skull. My head is empty of everything now,


so I cannot hear the music crescendoing

in the trees.  Light spills out my open mouth.  


Emma Hyche is a poet, essayist, and MFA candidate at Colorado State University. A winner of the 2016 AWP Intro Journals Award, her work appears or is forthcoming in Entropy, Permafrost, The Tampa Review, and elsewhere.