Poem 247 ± February 6, 2016

Chris Emslie
Steak Night

on the stairs behind
my apartment, he kissed me
like a bad movie: mid-sentence.

nothing shivered
on the tip of his tongue. nothing
ached to hop the space

between our mouths.
we burned there
in effigy, a gift

to that wide nothing. we burned
despite the moths alighting
on his shoulders,

despite how later, we’d curl
ourselves into the remainder,
an open quotation.

we burned too soft to see by.
seared but still bloody
even as we were swallowed.


Chris EmslieChris Emslie (also called Kit) is assistant editor at ILK journal. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, PANK, and NANO Fiction, among other journals. Chris lives in Tuscaloosa, AL, where they are an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama.

This poem is not previously published.