Volume 10 (Fall 2015)
like heaven, permits no souls
of sinning men—
his spot-lit torso a piston, gleaming,
headed by the camera's frame.
Whose gloved hand was it
reached in my throat, hefting my spirit from the cypress roots
of my lungs?
I dream I'm holding a pistol
I can't put down.
When I finish—
the squall that watered
what glistens in sunlight.
Sodden jacaranda petals.
My partner waits
for her purple lids to be toweled.
When you give me two lemons
gusting over the lot, I make them into
You change my mind. Your sky
the clean blue flame
of a stranger's eyes.
Raised trumpet bell, the halo warbles his carnal form.
The firmament's pixels flake, raining on the cathedral steps
Like bottles hoodlums would hit with bats, ski-masked
Outside the gay discotheque, hefting & wielding the holy
For a god who speaks with shards of heaven.
Kyle Churney's poems appear in The Journal, Salt Hill, and other publications. A recipient of a Literary Award from the Illinois Arts Council and a fellowship from the MacDowell Colony, his nonfiction appears in the Chicago Tribune Printers Row Journal. He lives in Chicago.