Poetry: Ryan Bollenbach
sometimes the word for tender isn’t tender
there is a knife
in the dishrack,
sharp, facing the open
kitchen. i take the blade
in my palm.
a hawk
claws inside a river.
i feel buzzing
in the wetness
of skin, a bright lamp
near death.
wrap a clean body
in a blanket,
tuck fibers into skin,
crevasses. a single eggshell aches
open. the knife
slices avocado
into shapes. eyebrows
easily into your palm.
skin is an organ pushing.
here is a knife
in the dishrack, face
open. i do not
cut myself against wet
skin susceptible
to phantoms, the edge
of the knife,
another body’s border,
the eye splits,
a peach.
here is water boiling.
i hold
your hand, you hold mine.
our fingernails grow
the same length,
arcing down the flats
of our palms.
here is a knife,
its face eyeing open
the kitchen air.
love is contingent like light.
love is overhead,
a fixture.
sometimes the word for tender isn’t tender
and a violin strike can be cold like air
strings shimmer your hair
and your pup pops you in your raw nose with her snout
out of love it still stings
Ryan Bollenbach is a writer with an MFA from University of Alabama’s creative writing program where he formerly served as the poetry editor for Black Warrior Review. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Timber, Colorado Review, smoking glue gun, Heavy Feather Review, and elsewhere. Find his tweets @SilentAsIAm, more writing at whatgreatlarks.tumblr.com.
Image: pinterest.com
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