These relics weren’t always disguised by sleet.
That letter resting between the envelope’s wheat-
thinned lips will sit unfinished, indelible
and shapeless as most evenings are. This man, unavailable,
lean, would never have read past the stub,
why the trouble, why the bother she’d say. Now her ink that flubbed
the lines is splitting, and the water we sip has lost its luster. The tissues
are still there, mapped out as at most funerals—fashioned to carry
the worry, caress anchored blame. She holds her image as his
blank reflection: the organless frame of a carcass, rawboned,
whimpering. Most ends begin the same in church: the cross
a fable, the garden in her mind consumed.
The exhibition of perpetual time, she said in greasy
rhythms, a spoken reminder never that necessary. A sleazy
nostalgia crept along the shallows of her spine. The drapes
along the window unloaded the room’s light: a pro-bono
agreement she tailored for herself. She eyed the letter on the floor,
placed it atop her unshelled lamp, bulb fingering the ink
until a lobster-flushed hue trilled down each corner; mending
a red sky against her stale bones and the year’s cracked lips.
Midnight’s Adult Cinema
At times this place is twice the scene of war.
A tit can flash, crowd the eyes, yet our cheeks
fail to even mime a subtle blush. Light
blows down each aisle revealing my place
in last row. Vinyl seats butter my blue
jeans while a woman tries to sleep against
my crimson button-down, her breaths attempt
to gush like mine. I could wake her, but her
rhythm pleases me. That slow and steady
draft leaps between her lips like the ocean
carries the tides away then in. Lifting my
neck towards the screen the eyes draw symbols
of cunts with hollow faces. The woman
still asleep beside me yawns the blues in peace.
Daddy’s terrified. He’s
that kind, liberal man
stuck between films that
we can never leave alone. He
buttons us up, leaves
us flushed with clatter that
spirals through his fingertips then deep
into us. Then the evening
came; bottles removed us one
by one until they became the
only audience in world.
We went into
our bedrooms, poured ourselves
between the sheets, and gave birth
to different lives.
Chris Suda’s poetry has been published in BlazeVOX, The Aura, and Rufous City Review. He is a twenty-four year old undergraduate at the University of Alabama at Birmingham and a musician when he puts the pen away. He is in three music projects: Philos Moore (singer-songwriter) In Snow (Instrumental), and Loveislight (Experimental Hip-Hop) when he’s not writing on paper.