The Collector

by Kristina Lynn

You collect my tears on your palm
like fireflies

and wipe them on your jeans.
The warm moisture smears

into the denim.
I lift my chin and see only

darkness that threatens
to swallow.

There are no stars here,
no cool breeze

playing us for fools
who ditch our jackets.

We are the tall order
that heightens enemy ground,

that escalates wind 
into a cyclone;

we are not the Centennial,
glass eyes still shining—

You no longer wish 
to lob dice

at the swimming pool.
And still,

I fill my pockets
with stale pennies.

Bottom Feeder

When you jammed your tongue down my throat,
                      When you pried the gaping hole open
and peered,
                      I could barely suppress my elation,
watching the way you mechanically pushed
                      yourself forward,
your Roman nose jutting into my nostrils,
                      your fish lips puckered to suck
in—between fascination and revulsion, I counted
                      your array of spidery lashes, I
counted the constellation of indentations
                      in your skin, I counted on
the precipice of euphoria preparing
                      its heart to eulogize me—Will
the neck turn? When the impact landed,
                      When you nudged me onto my side
and smashed my face into the walls
                      of our one-way aquarium,
I could barely suppress my admiration,
                      feeling for the way
you clumsily pitched yourself forward,
                      your crude fingers
pawing for the lever by my earlobe,
                      your flat ventrals hoisted in midair to flop
in—between reflections of your sleek celestial body,
                      I counted the pitching blackness, I
counted the galaxies swimming
                      in your nebular eyes, I counted
on this far-extending silence to divulge
                      the breadth of the cosmos—
The neck turns;
                      Will it feed when the body sinks?

We Regroup in the Kitchen

Your green eyes play too much—
or are they blue?

Your long legs wide-step
over to me,

you dart around the question
like a minnow.

In the kitchen, I cut
celery and try to peel

my eyes back so I can
really see you—

I make the wet, open holes like a dartboard;
hit them with a double ring

and I’ll abhor you.
You can never land on

what you really want.
My brother says

you’re looking for an ocean
in a landlock,

and I’m the bathwater
you’ll slowly cling to—

is there a door
for us,

Is there a door?
I’ll forget that I can swim

if you can swear
you won’t be the millstone.

Up to my neck
I’ll immerse,

refuse to square up—
you linger; 6 days

and counting

Until It’s Over

I imagine you
standing on the ceiling

when he says
Never once

for you
were always fond of fixtures,

the bleeding heart
still faithfully churning

dead air. He
lets loose the screen door behind him

and I throw my neck out
for the swift swing

still lands
though there’s no one to see it.

See this:
the inch that spares no detail

four thick thighs
on the outdoor swing.

We breathed in time
with the swaying,

and he turned his neck to whisper
when he was through

with shouting. I imagine
you are the fingers

scraping this hollowed-out,
protruded-gut feeling,

if I sit, silent
maybe he’ll hear me

and the ceiling will begin
to unfold

like a daydream. Still
the sun bears down on us

and I bend my left leg
to feel

closer; Tap my shin
until it’s over.

BIO

Kristina Lynn is a writer originally from the Garden State. She recently graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English Literature and has had work published in Eunoia Review and Bulb Culture Collective. She has work forthcoming in Beyond Words Literary Magazine.