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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.



Arian Katsimbras is the author of the full-length collection The Wonder Years (Texas A&M University Press, 2022). He lives in Reno, Nevada.

ISSN 2157-8079
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