selected poems by our editor linn berkvens
devils with sticky hands
you are not here, you are outside of yourself
staring at the way of the wind as the chime sounds
its lullaby so familiar, sounds like childhood camping
and bugs between the sheets, the runt sleeping
peacefully, with dogs running past the blades
they are not going, they never truly are
you are not here, you are merely a projection
singing the songs you once used to dazzle them with
the words never changed, and neither did the audience
but you’re not glowing anymore, you’re not a shining star
just a bag of bones pretending to be a marionette
it is heartbreaking to reckon with ‘always’
you are not here, you are playing a part
wincing at blood because that is what you were taught
kissing your mom because she loves you a lot
even though she puts you to sleep with arsenic
teaching this kid to beg for the taste of abuse
they are so proud of their little puppet
you are not here, you are against the sheets
feigning whimpers as he crashes into you, heavy, hard
it makes you believe in new forces, army alliances
putting weapons to thoughtless use and smoking
after sex, which all your girlfriends say is oh so sexy
the hounds are still barking, now they sound like his voice
you are not here, you are taking pictures
smiling at the crowd even if they are not looking
that tree in the forest, you think about its leaves often
so someone must be thinking about you too
and even if they are not, then it is always just in case
these philosophers soothe endless delusions
you are not here, you are somewhere else
sitting at the head of the table, a child with a lunar gaze
it is her birthday, so she closes her eyes tightly shut
blowing out the candles on her cake, fire and hurricanes
realizing they are not coming true, a monsoon pouring
your house is a sanctum for devils with sticky hands
glitterbaby
collecting every shade of pink panties, you archivist
a million dresses, and only about three of them worn
tracking your hair growth, it is only getting thinner
is blonde still the vibe? does it match your earrings?
you consider the sex appeal of gingers in this day and age
endlessly scrolling through tiktoks of glamorous anorexics
you’re obsessed with the way their shirt clings to their ribs
posing for the flashes, every night going over like a seizure
here you’re stealing the show, the y2k pop princess
of your small midwestern town, surrounded by cornfields
losing your mind over the toilet bowl, reapplying lip gloss
taking it so far, you run out of morning-after regrets
dancing to nothing, shot after shot of sugar-free liquor
is cocaine going to make you just a tiny bit skinnier?
how long until there are only bones left?
how long until your friends are finally concerned?
blood on your nails, sickness pouring out your eyes
track marks on your skin like old hollywood
you wonder if you can still write, if anything ever meant
anything to you, why nothing feels like it matters at all
and if your dreams were ever more than a pinterest board
store-bought love
heavyweights and the burdens of day
light resting on my shoulders the very moment when
someone crawls on the bed besides me.
this place where you used to sleep
it is a grave as much as it keeps you alive
—with diligence
counting the ghost of your pulse once every second
recounting your memory
a pastiche a depraved display of affection
some mask some face i do not understand.
and i am desecrating what once was us coming
apart so very gently.
my arms rolling in their sockets as we kiss each other raw
as we touch and touch and touch and touch and touch
until it feels like we are not ourselves
and we slowly become other people.
we clean up the aftermath.
she falls asleep but i keep shaking.
dead night late the sheets still smell like the cold morning.
this forlorn love in your wake breaking from what i can figure is a heart.
cut-up aching into perfectly digestible pieces—
roses and sandalwood that god-awful perfume
so invasive and the sweetest
all at once.
abundances of fragments i carry with my hands. i’m starting
to see the cracks through the bandages again.
i don’t know if i’m still bleeding i’m too scared to check.
you might have left but the wounds
(or scars later deemed little bows to wrap up the present of
tragedy)
they never go.
the wheel spins rattle-rattle i’m in the taxi once more.
(why do i keep getting in?)
rocking back and forth tipping the driver as he takes me places.
a dirty hole-in-the-wall somewhere people peak through kaleidoscopes
a drowsy bar with strangers who wear sweaty bodies
where messes go in the hope of getting cleaned up
where i sway belonging
the crowd swallows me biting
where i’m fluorescent blue or am i just standing in the middle of the street?
these violent headlights create violent rear-ends.
(what did you do to me?)
from us onward everyone i try to love
eventually feels like roadkill
does the spiral culminate?
into some sea or the warm bottom of a lake?
can my head find a place to rest between some faceless girl’s thighs?
heavyweights and rocks and glass and nails
and everything else still stuck between my vertebrae.
the worry dissolves a little when i get my hands dirty.
i almost forget about my memories
as i try the taste of store-bought love
and i give myself some leeway with the meaning.
it’s touch at best it’s only touch i know that.
but regardless i’ll convince myself
i feel completely whole.