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.