Poetry by Casey Harloe

Does the Thought of Dying in Cincinnati Make You Depressed?

Armed with Rhinegeist Truth, you, a Camel blue,
crumbled like ash. I don’t know how to act
cool as shit. It’s late. 1AM. Will you
stay here forever? Strips of black street cats
under truck belts, pregnant. Mammoth meow
of ambulances. I cover your ears.
Bad gin on the cold back deck, teach me how
to play that song. Good words, quiet for hours.
Parmesan gelato by the window.
Show how afraid you are. Your yellow teeth.
We talk in corners. Wedged by walls. Look, snow
falling. I watch alone. Silent white sheath.
In the belly of Cincinnati night,
my heart is burning like a neon light.

Intimate Horror

I must suck it up, stay stuck being sexy
and stupid. Excessive and empty. Emotional

abundance will not face extinction.
This season has made me grizzly

in a gorge. Slip into sleep. Hibernate
the hunger off, hunt for summer

fish. Big gnash, lucky catch,
precision kill. Carve yellow fangs

and sink further into. I want a vacuum
to call mine, dead skin to collect

in corners of rooms behind the couch.
A TV. Trash to wheel to the end

of the street. I hate facing facts, having strong
opinions. I make silent wishes

on cell towers, powerlines, invisible
dog fences for transmission

of a thought. I want a night
with eternal aux playing wordless

songs. Currently: Googling pictures of
brains, pouring half a Modelo

down the sink, smoking to think how webbed
I am with feeling. This is grief, I guess

I exist. Spawning sadness like armpit sweat,
growing my hair out so it can be held

and yanked. I want a heart to grip, a hand
to break.

Casey Harloe

IG: @girlonmachine

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