Still Life with a Hollow in It
by Arian Katsimbras
— For Bob Hicok
My favorite poet asked me
what I am ardentheartedly
afraid of: that I am lacking,
that even now I ask him
for permission and I am
afraid of what follows me home
at night; I find myself bent
whenever my shadow grows
too long. I fear I’ve become
easier to ignore, that I am
merely someone else’s word
for vanish. The first time
I saw myself entirely
was in a nixed polaroid
my stepfather kept in his
pocket of my mother giving
birth to me. Crowned, that’s
what it’s called, right? King
me. This is not a metaphor.
My head never lost the blood
and noise in its dents. My mother
is still alive, I think. I am still
in the picture, and even though
I hung up the phone years ago,
my mother is still screaming
for me to come home.
I thought then if I pushed
enough with a small finger
I could unmake myself.
I scissored a hole just wide
enough for me to fit through,
then disappear completely.
There is no translation for where
I ought to appear in the photo
breached, backbodied, kinged,
mother wrapped around me.
My favorite poet asked me
what I am ardentheartedly
afraid of: that I am lacking,
that even now I ask him
for permission and I am
afraid of what follows me home
at night; I find myself bent
whenever my shadow grows
too long. I fear I’ve become
easier to ignore, that I am
merely someone else’s word
for vanish. The first time
I saw myself entirely
was in a nixed polaroid
my stepfather kept in his
pocket of my mother giving
birth to me. Crowned, that’s
what it’s called, right? King
me. This is not a metaphor.
My head never lost the blood
and noise in its dents. My mother
is still alive, I think. I am still
in the picture, and even though
I hung up the phone years ago,
my mother is still screaming
for me to come home.
I thought then if I pushed
enough with a small finger
I could unmake myself.
I scissored a hole just wide
enough for me to fit through,
then disappear completely.
There is no translation for where
I ought to appear in the photo
breached, backbodied, kinged,
mother wrapped around me.
Arian Katsimbras is the author of the full-length collection The Wonder Years (Texas A&M University Press, 2022). He lives in Reno, Nevada.