Sweettalk
They've written hardly any hymns
to life after. They recall bloodsport:
all those boys you fed paint thinner,
fields of rolled Cadillacs, birdshot
in every man's daughter. Sweetheart,
this is how they will remember me
and why not? I was touched, made
right with good men and a padlock,
and I never saved a single girl they
followed into bathrooms. Sweetheart,
this was all solely for your memory:
We were driving and the dawn across
the hood. You caught cold and the gin
inside your juice. It was raining and we
were barefoot as a family. It was dying
and being sure this house would hold.
by Caleb Kaiser
Caleb Kaiser is a writer from Kentucky living in Chicago. His work has recently appeared in BOAAT, Painted Bride Quarterly, Diagram, and PANK. He is a staff member of Able Projects and the Adroit Journal.