“Her” All these lines. All these words. All these thoughts, scribbled across paper for a girl I do not see. (Not know.) Scribbled in ink, staining the paper.                                     Staining my soul.                                     …But she is—                                     …she is beautiful… She is the way. On the composition notebooks pages before me: Dig deep.                                     Dig deep to the bottom—   and think of her,     to the r

object permanence: queer death i troweled loam last summer for this,  a pine sapling, loitered with creeping charlie, door- knobs of little cabbages. pink geranium hustled by bittercress, seeds puckered onto my wrists  like a rash of bullet casings. what’s left is wind.  if i don’t claw the earth  from the earth, more & more  genitals return. wild turkey thrash  at the mulch regardless of the silver  tongue of bird tape. most houses build around  their canopies. in a decade,

Chriss is a poet and author living in Northern Idaho with their spouse, cat, dog, and too many unused college degrees. Healthcare professional by day. Daydreamer by night. Look for their work in new words {issue three} from new words {press}, as well as in milk: on consumption, materialism, and taste from Carrion Press and the debut issue of Tension Literary: Writing with an Edge, both to be released later this year. You can follow them on Instagram @viciouschrisss.