BY: Kylan rice


I had half of a revelation—went and

added your gouged out weight to mine

as not just cities seem to sink,

brick kissing brick, and so on.

Don’t let’s let that be us.

If possible, just take half a sip.

Toss your head back as if you had more than neck there,

some shape of bone or bade to mimic.

A film streams through on part of the screen,

and so I watch only a fricative fraction

of the first kiss—as if he’s clamming up

for just a pinch of space’s grace.

I watch him toughen with the suspense

of some strange, half-placeable scent on his person.

Some cancellation of hush and knees,

as if prayer was for the winners.

Who said breath was a release of weight?

My lungs must suck

at being lungs then.

Or I’ll stop them,

so that they’re cared for last,

gasping at a glimpse or sidelong,

at a hand resumed into mine,

at giving in to what might be a river

but more probably is half a grin.

I cope in this hope of halves, at least,

as it’s been written heaven 

is full of wholes.