He’s the most amazing &
already they take him, fate
beautys up the mirror, wonders
how ever one gets used to tighter.
I wake alone & say Jack
until I lose & the white
of my eyes vibrate & blood
drips in rios down my nose.
Almost a model, food-
trays slip through the tiny
slit an effort to ingest, down
25 lbs. feeling born all over again.
They try in every way to reach
you. They flatter, they promise
you things they can never give.
In silence you sit not even nodding
your head. At night pedal
an invisible bike. Day paces
like dinosaur string sticking
to the wall. New larva. Draw
a shovel over your bed. Draw
a hole. Draw a blonde girl wearing
a short skirt. Draw cloud city.
Draw just enough so you can see
the edge of her white panties.
I move slowly fingers over
my hip bones, ribs, skin is so
so white & clear. Hair unkempt
like it that way. With a pen missing
its shell (so not to hurt) I write
a letter to you then rip it to shreds.
I start over and describe the apples
in my dream. I mention my blonde
girlfriend Lindsay, my fingers always
moving. Your eyes like two Jupiters
floating over me before I fall off to sleep.
Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, IthacaLit, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.