say hello to my little Kyle
gulf to the left of us rattlesnakes to
the right here we are stuck in the poison ivy with Kyle crying
because someone said the p-word this wasn’t the first time Kyle
lost it the first time was when he saw Bugs Bunny sing Die Walküre
in a dress not everyone can be kicked out of the nest with
the whole world in their hands—— but Kyle can when you’re
all risk & no reward you don’t have to play it safe the world
is your target practice your first person shooter game no
one told Kyle what blood lust would do to him Kyle missed
class the day they covered the finer points of the spear
but man that boy can cry on the stand Kyle can cry
on demand ask for an ID to acquire ammo Kyle will cry
catch him peeping into bathroom windows like a common
King David Kyle will cry rebuff his prom proposal oh my
darlin’ oh my darlin’ oh my darlin’ Kyle will cry bullets
no one told Kyle desire would eat him alive—— him & his little red
hat too that it’d would whittle him down to a trigger
the last person who tried died when Kyle’s hot lead tears rained
down from the sky he made Pandora gone forever oh my
darlin’ what a guy
ritornelle to the refinery baron
petroleum becomes a bad
habit with the speed of
a white rabbit. you don’t trust rust,
chose to seal your lips with
money. honey, you cut out your
tonsils & offered them
to the bluebonnets or gave them
to your patron saint. when
sirens run over cup rims &
ants ball at the water’s
edge, you’ll tear your way to center
stage, toss your ring into
the wishing cup. you were stationed
at the Sabine’s mouth as
torrents twostepped from bayous with
terrors & tornados.
hey, let’s give away our guilty
pleasures as Ike knocks dike
dike against our windows. nothing
lucky ever started
with the blame game. hey, the bodies
could fill a thimble with
their limbs akimbo. bae, arrange
your arms like an ark &
admit treasures by the trenchful.
you will have grinning djinns
to cheer as they split their bellies
in the nearest gaping
eddy. the lost boys could breathe new
universes into
being if they could only grunt—
a party trick, a stunt,
a dove beating in your mouth like
someone’s heart boxed in glass.
come here, boy. toss your coin into
the new Iraq War.
Lucy will be found open, opening, oh
in the belly of the beast
the altar boys are threatened by Lucy’s white thighs so they
call her skirts tricks & whip the flanks of their stony horses
there’s a crisis boiling over on the propane camp stove: stormy
skies birds & butterflies among the sainted salvage the altar
boys want to stick corks in Lucy’s red lips that flutter like moths
but avoid their flames the altar boys aren’t able to drink Lucy
under tables they label her body 8% come on & jerk off in the
stables burnt brats fat as a bridle’s bit hit the walls with
overdone pasta & accusations the altar boys sweat pearls
when peals of Lucy’s saccharine laughter hang about the
rafters like silver garlands or garter belts—— enough to gird
stallions in their stalls the altar boys suck Lucy’s sweetness
through straws get into brawls drains clot with rot & pots
become helmets held down with belts that once raised welts on
their sisters’ withers Lucy doesn’t ask about their pistols the
altar boys don’t leave messages after the beep—— they just breathe
heavy on the line & end in whinnies the altar boys bring Lucy
their manifestos Lucy can’t seem to shake them from her
back forget the riders & run Lucy search for foxholes
to fold into track rabbits among attic’s static the altar
boys are here with their axes
if he can commit, Lucifer gets the part of the king of hearts
everyone wants to be the catch——fresh out of
fucks & ready to fight. everyone wants to
be decanted. sit on a tidal wave as if
it were a La-Z-Boy & carve of the day
into your sternum. a crow is an omen
if you need one. two breaths is confrontation.
there is no balance to be found when you stab
you through the head unless you are on a ledge.
all hail the returned hero no one wanted.
no one wanted him to discover the end
of the checked diner floor. no one wanted him
to declare king me in a classified ad.
single white male seeks tightrope with a kink for
being walked all over. parquet preferred. no
one needs a crown when every coronation becomes
Adam biting into Eve. he could have bound
her into the book of names he never got
around to writing. he’s contagious. take a
number. he’s a fever. take an aspirin.
sooner or later, your ticket will ring,
Suicide King. but there was never an apple.
there was a fig & a figure of speech. there
was Eve rising in stacked onion skins. hey, a
topographical map—— go figure. there were
rings around the rosies on the dashboard——all
hail the taillights. the tongue turned under a bitter
lozenge doesn’t know me from Adam. go
ahead, admit it: it’s not me you dress for
in the dark. we’re fresh out of Eves. king me.
Panika M. C. Dillon’s upcoming publications include Prairie Schooner, One Page Poetry, and Casting Aspersions. She won the 2024 Bedford Competition for Poetry and placed second for the 2024 Vivian Shipley Poetry Prize. She received her MFA in creative writing poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. She is a legislative reporter at the Texas Capitol, major medical foster for Austin Pets Alive!, and volunteer staff crew leader at the Kerrville Folk Festival. She has been relating to Rochester’s feelings about Charles II lately, thought at least Charles II said wise things even if he did not do them.
