On Holes
There are things I’m able to say only in the dark.
How these hands hurt
even now. Again snow is falling like dead stars.
Again it is November.
Do I believe in lungs? Or only your tangled hair
clogging the tub?
Tell me all the ways to die silently & tell me where you hide
your favorite shade of evening yellow.
Understand I love loneliness & swallowing
fistfuls of bees-
how a hole is defined by its ability to hold
& also its emptiness.
There are things I’m able to say only in the dark.
How these hands hurt
even now. Again snow is falling like dead stars.
Again it is November.
Do I believe in lungs? Or only your tangled hair
clogging the tub?
Tell me all the ways to die silently & tell me where you hide
your favorite shade of evening yellow.
Understand I love loneliness & swallowing
fistfuls of bees-
how a hole is defined by its ability to hold
& also its emptiness.
Steve Merino (he/him/his) is a meat raffle host, a zamboni driver, and a poet living in Saint Paul, MN. He received his MFA from Hamline University in 2019. Steve's previous work can be found in Ghost City Review and Oyster River Pages and is forthcoming to You Flower / You Feast. Find him liking posts on twitter: @steve_merino