Poetry By Kelly Cutchin

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Wild Now

We are all vanilla and dog hair, spilling 
like blonde roast from couch to bed to bathtub,
saying grace to whoever is responsible for ease.

Our lips are pizza grease kisses and I sometimes taste
the timid ghost of the woman I was four states ago
under his tongue. She covers her eyes, not ready

for what comes next, but I tell her 
we are wild now. We have used fist and palm 
muddling tears with forgiveness, cast a spell

to burn what’s dead but spare the plot of land
where we almost dug our graves. We have built a chapel
out of clavicle and mandible, cinnamon and marigold petals,

held service at four on a Thursday and called it good.
We have braided our hair with pappus tufts of dandelions,
tied the plaits with piñon bark, lost our heads

bare naked in Galisteo Creek. I whisper, No one hunts 
us anymore. We got away, drove the getaway car
clear into the desert. I tell her there is space

for her and her dreams of riding horses
through mountain passes, a lover following in awe
of their luck. She wavers, but I can’t remember why.

I tuck her back in, tell her she’ll catch up
to us soon. From what I recall, she won’t
take long to get free.




Kelly Cutchin (she/her/hers) should’ve been named YELLY and is a writer, teaching artist, and workshop facilitator based in suburban Colorado. She is the self-proclaimed DoorDash of downhome holler witches and a human interrobang. You can read more of her rad peculiar poems in Olney Magazine and Querencia Press’ Spring Anthology.
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