Three poems by Christopher Hivner

And it Burned

He existed outside the store; reluctant, manic; fierce eyes purging the air of molecules. Step, step, step, turn; step, step, step, turn; he marched in concomitance with his heart beat. He waited with desperation, just to see a face. If he could look into the eyes to see what he received back. Outside the store cars came and went, bodies walked in and out, men laughed, women swept their hair, the air burned. He waited. He waited. He waited, existing in a thread of time loose from any garment and it burned.




I Wrote This One While it Rained

Soothing patter
lets me to devices
that exist
only in the morning quiet,
thoughts snake
to the surface
from crevasses inside
that never
completely healed.
My choice:
push them away
with force
or allow them
a space to live
if only temporarily,
but that’s a danger
I’ve shaken hands with before.
It is sly, insidious,
yet on this morning
with plans ruined,
the gray sky acts as
carnival barker
inviting me to
step right up
and take a gawk
at the monster
buried in the pit.
So I sneak a peek,
heart beating
with the thunder.
The rain pelts
the creature
but it doesn’t stir,
sleeping soundly,
the snores rumble
and I shake my head.
Encouraged by the gloom
to prod it
with a sharp stick,
instead
I let sleeping pain lie.
With age comes wisdom
or maybe
you just get lucky
once in a while.




My Darling, Perchance

Disguises aren’t for everyone.
I liked to stay invisible
in front of the day
but she wanted
the fire
so we’d walk,
down the blocks, through the nationals,
me with my shoulders forward
and her a step ahead,
hair blowing in the wind
even when their wasn’t any.
 
Old men liked to wet their fingers
when she passed by,
receiving a full set of teeth
in return,
young losers thrust their pelvis
from across the street
yelling with their hands,
spelling out filthy entreaties
with rolled tongues.
She’d stiffen her neck and pretend
she was above their distaste
but she tucked it all away
in a pocket of her flesh
to be used later.
 
Disguises aren’t for everyone,
not for those that are even,
but she went out in layers
to collect everyone’s love
so when we got home
she could be part of us
and hold that energy in reserve
in case
that wasn’t enough.


​

 About the author: Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Saudade and Dead Snakes. A chapbook of poems, “The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass” was published by Scars Publications and another, “Adrift on a Cosmic Sea”, was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press. website:www.chrishivner.com, Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams

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