UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY


CHRISTOPHER HIVNER

Rock ní Roll

Her skin blushed red
at the touch of his lips
and the taste of sweet tea
braised her tongue.
She felt herself falling
but never landed,
like a gull on the ocean
she bobbed to and fro
while he maneuvered her body.
The ceiling tiles
melted over her
like a coat of whitewash.
She spoke to a star
she knew was out there,
making a wish
that this was love,
but she knew
it was the heroin
he had juiced into her veins.
Languid and inviolate
she allowed him access
to every piece of her.
Her head filled with music
like they used to play
on the rides at the fair
when she was a child,
scratchy guitars and low voices
coming through tinny speakers.
Everything became a color
with a name
and she wondered
if he put something into her wine
because she had never felt like this,
but why would he do that?
She already belonged to him,
gave everything
without taking change.
If he swallowed
she tried to steal it
from his throat
to make it her own,
when he left her for days
she slept with his shirts
tangled between her legs,
rubbing her breasts,
covering her mouth,
suffocating.
The music became garbled
in her head,
she was eating a popsicle
too fast
when her mother called
and she couldnít answer
fast enough,
then she was gone.
Why did he drug the wine,
is he even here?
She looked down,
her legs were still spread
and one of her nipples
was bleeding,
she reached for his hair,
felt for warmth,
the air smelled of sweet leaf
and giggled at her hands
dancing over her body
searching for her lover.
She mouthed something
to her mother
but the headache pierced her thoughts,
the popsicle had been grape,
her favorite,
she called his name.
There was no answer,
then a carnival barker
asked her to play a game,
break the balloon
win a prize,
just that easy,
and when she looked
for a dollar
she found his jacket,
sweat-stained,
soaked in cigarette smoke,
she pulled it close,
gluing it to herself
with perspiration,
petting the heavy denim
as though he were in it,
she shut her eyes
to go to sleep
and talk to her mother,
but kept her legs spread
in case he came back.


Night Train

The world dreamt last night
that the oceans were malevolent,
rising in anger,
teeth bared like a predator.
The world dreamt
of love affairs
and sexual encounters
but with everyone out of place.
When the lights went out
the world dreamt
in colors
both vibrant and muted,
of chariots
drawn by 800 horse
carrying no passengers,
only drivers
shrouded in white.
Last night,
as the tides ebbed,
sleep was purchased reluctantly
and the world dreamt
for morning to come.


Christopher Hivner writes from Pennsylvania while his mind lounges on a tropical island. HIs work has been published in Black October, Wilmington Blues and others. A collection of short horror stories, "The Spaces Between Your Screams", was published in 2008. He can be visited at www.chrishivner.com.







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