Tell Me, Kitty Pryde
by Kieron Walquist

What’s it like: to escape,
to phase through walls in
smokin’ black & gold but
not splatter yourself small?

I’ve tried to ghost. Sucked down
a pearl necklace of pills, but bricks
are hard—like knuckles—& that
hardness says I’m nothing special.

Do you leave your body behind?
The theatre curtain of blood, the
honeycomb of bones—where
it go when you’re halfway?

I’m sure I left mine, somewhere, without
a leash. It’s easier: to get high & forget
what I’m holding on to. Better if I float
over him & stray the body to howl alone.

Or does the world fold around you,
like water when one drops a rock to
wreck it’s still face? The world—does
it scar first then heal perfect, if at all?

I can’t displace the trailer or him inside it—
both are bombproof, & I’m nothing special.
I always see the hero swoop to save the ingénue.
But please, Miss Pryde, this time rescue the boy.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 2.

Kieron Walquist lives in Missouri. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Daily Science Fiction, fresh.ink, Gingerbread House, Gulf Coast, Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, and X-R-A-Y, among others. He plans to study creative writing at WASHU’s MFA program in the fall of ’20.

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