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Kyle Huckins May 2018
"In your dream, a moonlight figure appears
at your bedside and touches your face.
He asks if he might share the bread
of your sorrow. You show him the table."
- Ted Kooser, Lobocraspis griseifusa

You want to hurl it at the grief-
stricken you, squatting in mirrors,
instead returning to the search for relief.
In your dream, a moonlight figure appears.

Its melody swirls in your tongue,
echoes of the familiar, but no longer adjace-
ent. In your dream, it clung
to your bedside and touched your face.

Hunting grounds exist everywhere for the prize
you search for, but silence flails it's screaming head
as you watch the passing of one thousand mayflies.
I ask if I might share the bread.

Shared stories birth laughter and tear as we nourish
our torn worlds. What we want is stable,
so I promise to contrast the flourish
of your sorrow. You've shown me the table.
I decided to experiment with a poetic form called a Glose or Glosa, native to Spain. A Glosa is made of a stanza from another poem, called the cabeza,"followed by the glosa proper, which is as many stanzas as there are lines in the cabeza, and each stanza ends with the next line from the cabeza. I took a stanza from Ted Kooser's Lobocraspis griseifusa. It's a bit rough and abstract, but I had fun with it anyway.
Kyle Huckins Sep 2019
Some days I still open my eyes with silent panic that as I awaken, I'll be held down.
At 8AM light streams past the gap above your curtains. Broken, I'm relearning safety.

7 years of surviving but now in your red sheets, I do not fear being held so much.
Kyle Huckins Feb 2010
The thermos stands like a torpedo
on its end.
A gift from my grandparents,
a reminder of family forgotten,
gathers dust.
It's still full of green tea.
Unwashed and ignored,
It's lost all it had to say.
But maybe I should wash
the stagnant thermos.
Fresh, iced Oolong is best
in the summer heat.
Kyle Huckins Feb 2010
I won't lie, it's easy enough to replace you.
You were a replacement yourself. I bought
you at office depot, and your predecessor
was given to me by a friend. Mechanical
pencil lead is cheap. The only difference
between you and the lead I've owned
before is that you broke every other
word I tried to write. It didn't matter
how much weight I put onto the paper.
You snapped into pieces that dropped
every time I tried to pick them up.
Because of your brittleness, you
stood out, and unlike the lead
that kept itself together, you
won't be so readily forgotten.
Kyle Huckins Feb 2013
12 years ago today:
The first time I massaged
your scalp with my feet.  
For all those rubs,
you paid me back well, friend.

I'm sorry for the time I watered
your hair with Kool-Aid,
but it's my 1 to your 50.  
That's right, I've kept track,
so don't even try to contend.

I haven't forgotten your crimes:
The time you stole my Silly
Putty; bits of food you "found."
Crouching whenever I awoke
and let my foot descend.

You always refused to give up
your collection of clipped toenails,
or clean the marks our dog left.
And even then, when they wanted
you out, it was you who I'd defend.

But jamming the vacuum with loose ends,
that was it.  My willpower won't ever bend
to you again.  This month I'll rend
you, not my common sense, old friend.
Hardwood flooring doesn't bend.
Kyle Huckins Feb 2010
I stand here silently,
watching them take you away
in a box of metal.
Professional mourners weep
like banshees in a bog.
Strangers, family, and friends alike
All stand,
Allowing ourselves one final moment
before you've been made into ash
to let memory wash over us.

You were the mad one.
The only person I knew who could
eat more than fifteen hot dogs in one sitting
and still have room for lunch, dinner, and dessert.
You always said that you would be the first to go,
that death would take the best of us first.

The men come out to to your family
handing over your ashes.
The weepers leave,
the friends disperse,
the family begins on their way home.

Five years later,
the anniversary of your death.
I stand at your body-less marker.
As I move to turn away
I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I turn around confused
and gasp surprised.
You're more than just
ashes in an urn,
hidden in a closet.

You are the one who mourns,
your death unaccepted by those closest to you.
You ask me to say the words
that no one else had the strength to.
Good Luck.
With that, you are again
Kyle Huckins Feb 2013
In this era of stressed
props, I am sighing.
and signs
and disagreements
in which prawnbrokers
have added rabid plantlife
in addition to that already
labeled in the corner of the shop.

Often those additions
are at the request
of seers.
Kyle Huckins Apr 2018
My hands open as our paths unfold
apart, and behind us, cities unfold.

Two Lycaenidae tear through the lavender field,
whispering new ways for their wings to unfold.

A book dances open, its words staring at the wide-
eyed wonder of woman, watching its truths unfold.

The breath of the ocean lingers, tasting of memories:
ice cream, vinegar, and warmth, as waves unfold.

Cookie dough, melting in the oven. The smell hits
hard, and I wish for the taste, in my mouth, to unfold.

Under plum blossoms, gardens of people cultivate
understanding, allowing their chanting to unfold.

A splash, as the boy is pushed down into water. He
rises, bonded by water, to his God, his faith to unfold.

Three pugs, home from patrolling the boulevard,
resting on their owner's lap, puppy love unfolds.

Our journeys have led to different roads.
My soul opens as our fears unfold.
Kyle Huckins Feb 2013
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only dirt that, like jellyfish, echoed away

A refugee of the Imperial Court once hid in the Zhongnan.
He survived in silk rags, and would ode The Way

Moss-haired men watch Magnavox in windows,
the evangelical salesman begging them not to toad away.

Across the street, near the top floor, a freshly-ex-student
sits at his desk in an IRS building, told five hours ago to code away

A face, topped with hot pink, brandishes her crop in a field
of signs, screaming at Wall Street's old way.

A yam of a man, braving his new home in the hills,
freedom from obligation, finds a stream to wash the woad away.

Along a country road, a man with a sandpaper'd
face counts his money, having just sold whey

Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only a past that, like jellyfish, echoed a way

Twenty one years have given me many names.
Call me Kyle, or the others I've borrowed away.
Kyle Huckins Feb 2010
All I can think to do at the table
is stare at the bright orange Reeses'
cups package and the Payday
bars illuminated by light
from the vending machine. I sit,
wondering whether they drip

inside their package. My arm drips
to my pocket. I bring money to the table,
ready to decide just what is it
that I want to buy. I prefer Reeses',
but it's been long since I've tasted the light
caramel and crunchy peanut of a Payday.

This decision would be easy if I had a Payday.
As it stands, my money is dripping.
If it's any indication of how light
my wallet is, I can barely bring one back to the table.
It's a tough decision. I've been craving Reeses'
for weeks. I haven't decided, but this is it.

I walk up to the machine. I'm done sitting,
It's a question of this or that. Payday?
Heads. I reach in my pocket. Tails, Reeses'.
I manage the quarter out. How could I know I'd rip
a dollar in the process? Back to the table
for damage control. The tear was light

enough not to be serious, just a slight
rip. It's easier to flip a coin while you sit
anyway. I toss it in the air and it lands on the table.
Heads. I smiled, my decision was made. Payday.
I walk back to the machine and drop
coins in, not making eye contact with the Reeses'.

As I get up, I feel terrible. I've betrayed the Reeses'
cups I've enjoyed since I was a child, the delight
that kept me going when there wasn't a drip
of tea left. I think I'll go downstairs to sit
and eat my new sugary master, the Payday.
This time I pass by, not return to, the table.

I look back, past the table, at the orange Reeses'
packages, then glance at my Payday. It's light,
I won't have to sit to eat it. Ashamed, my eyes drip.
Kyle Huckins Jul 2019
I will forget the blue jacket you wore
when our lips met, tongues curious
behind closed mouths. I will forget
the way my pinky slipped between your
middle and ring fingers as you took
my whole palm. I will forget
just as the blossom holding witness will
shed its petals.

They will return, bound by the warmth
of your ear kissing my neck while our
hair tangles together. They will return,
awakened by that passionate storm
you pour as I uncork a bottle
of neuroscience. They will return,
just as the blossom that held witness
grows its petals.

They will wilt, soured as a year leaves
the three months we shared behind. It was
my mistake.
I never got around to uploading this one. Circa July 2018

— The End —