Anti-Heroin Chic
  • Home
  • About
  • Blog
  • Music
  • Art
  • Comedy
  • About Our Contributors
  • Masthead
  • Issues
  • About our contributors - 2019
  • About Our Contributors - 2020
  • About Our Contributors - 2021
  • Home
  • About
  • Blog
  • Music
  • Art
  • Comedy
  • About Our Contributors
  • Masthead
  • Issues
  • About our contributors - 2019
  • About Our Contributors - 2020
  • About Our Contributors - 2021
Search by typing & pressing enter

YOUR CART

​

10/31/2019

Poetry by Lillian Sickler

Picture
              hnt6581 CC



bat fishing with Rachel 
 
when I lived with my parents 
when I still slept underneath 
 
a roof— 
my favorite sister and I 
 
would sit on the shingles  
and fish for bats 
 
with long nets meant 
for minnows. 
 
the sky would hold 
its breath 
 
and turn dark indigo, 
but we’d stay out 
 
until that flimsy periwinkle 
line appeared 
 
on the event horizon and we’d talk 
about times that we wanted 
 
to forget. like the morning 
our father hit that squirrel 
 
with the secondhand Chevy 
and it didn’t die 
 
right away, just writhed in the road 
like it had been electrocuted. 
 
my sister would do the same thing 
when she laughed 
 
as when she cried: 
bend over and touch 
 
her knees, holding 
her breath like it was 
 
something about 
to fly away



​

looking at the sun 
 
a rainbow of mums spilled across the doorway to September & the rich  
folks headed to Saratoga to cast their bets on thoroughbred racing.  
 
your boyfriend stood on his mohair sofa, your beloved Mississippi  
pooling around his ankles as his feet sank into the sun-bleached cushions 
 
i am on my way to heaven he said it only with his hands as he waited 
for your neighbors to line up spherical bales of hay in the ornery fields 
 
ponies in the starting gate— 
beautiful is fast. fast is beautiful. 
 
in Tennessee, 200 feet of quarry water held you up like a prize fighter, 
your heart cherried with crimson clay.  
 
maybe it is possible that the adults are lying about the dangers of looking  
directly at the sun. because you didn’t look— 
 
& you missed the pink lights 
of his fingernails as the starting pistol bucked in his sweat-shined hands 
 
& you are cursed with the fact that you became a part of the world 
—a part of that quarry—just as he was leaving it 

​
Picture
Lillian Sickler is a poet, writer, and birth doula living in Knoxville, Tennessee. Her work can be found in Cosmonauts Avenue, Ghost City Press, Vagabond City, Noble / Gas Quarterly, and upcoming issues of Hobart and Crab Fat Magazine. She has two cats named Laika and Junebug.

Sherry
11/8/2019 01:26:18 pm

Love her work.


Comments are closed.

    Author

    Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.

    Archives

    December 2024
    November 2024
    August 2024
    July 2024
    April 2024
    March 2024
    December 2023
    November 2023
    October 2023
    September 2023
    August 2023
    July 2023
    June 2023
    March 2023
    December 2022
    October 2022
    July 2022
    June 2022
    May 2022
    April 2022
    January 2022
    December 2021
    November 2021
    September 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    May 2021
    April 2021
    March 2021
    February 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    August 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.