Volume 10 (Fall 2015)

Kyle Churney

San Fernando


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—

I'm forgotten,

                    the squall that watered

what glistens in sunlight.

                           Sodden jacaranda petals.

My partner waits

for her purple lids to be toweled.

                          San Fernando:

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.

Mosaic Christ

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.