Remission Two Prose Poems by Kyle Hemmings
You’ll recover from her pomegranate lies. You still unpeel at the touch. Tossing in her bed like another stray dog, sweet canine shelter for animals shedding skin. Gluten will not unravel the night. So you stay hungry & speechless. Her meager hand-outs, her breasts that taste slightly vanilla and not-forgetful. She says she heard a rumor that an ex-boyfriend is dying of cancer. You begin checking for lumps in the rind, in the core. You suggest he should stick to raw vegetables. It won’t cure, but it might help. Not funny, she says with indigo killer eyes. When the old lover returns, becomes the still life, her best anorexia, you’re lonelier than a blown kiss.
Blanche DuBois in New York City
Could she have been an 80’s Blanche DuBois serving finger food and tapas to over-aged punks? Transplanted to Delancey Street, snatched into another decade but still time-sensitive, finding a myriad of fast exits and wings, still no cure for ingrown toenails. One lover found the clap. He never believed that she had beaten Spina Bifida as a child. Or even had it. She applied at Wendy’s, MacDonald’s, a bar on East 3rd that served the sexually ambivalent. Only. Certain questions were left blank. Birthday, uncertain. Horoscope: You’re late on Wednesdays. Closest relative: a neutered cat that freaked in mirrors. One boyfriend in make-up, no fixed address, called himself Flat-Billy. After double-shots of everything but what’s to keep you here, they trekked for 60 blocks at 3: a.m. believing themselves to be Odysseus and Margaret Mitchell. They found that God was empty of heart but had a good pouring hand. When it rained, she always received a good tip.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Your Impossible Voice, Night Train, Toad, Matchbox and elsewhere. His latest ebook is Father Dunne’s School for Wayward Boys at amazon.com. He blogs at upatberggasse19.blogspot.com