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.