Summer 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 3 Poetry |

Warning

As heat moves through like its own animal whose evening pulse is headlights and a reply of lit cats' eyes, as after the amber of Freon streaks my ceiling and the ceiling begins to cave, I've had no AC for days. I've had knuckles unfold from the oleanders, try to lock with mine. They're boiled and hazy in their summer whites--- why I remember the boy from down the street who often begged to suck my eyeball. My pupil rolled under his tongue, the one whose scent was clove smoke and a soft brie, winging after some blinding sight. I must've singed the buds in his tongue to desert thistles---left a taste like a saint's charred footprint. As you recede, memory, a warning: my eye might make something calcify, a stone through your sleep, shorn dog so nude it's another nocturnal shiver. As sweat stings my eye, you'll recall the taste, and the blue cacti, stoppered with blooms, will seize like blown crepe.

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.
Anna Journey is the author of the poetry collections Vulgar Remedies (Louisiana State University Press, 2013) and If Birds Gather Your Hair for Nesting (University of Georgia Press, 2009), which was selected by Thomas Lux for the National Poetry Series. She is an assistant professor of English at the University of Southern California. Her website is http://annajourney.com.

Read More

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.