Kalyn Livernois
None of Us
Into a bath, I take tea and a book I cannot forgive:
it killed the dog. Today, I saw fields of lupine. They grow
on racemes, colored like strawberry milk and grape chewing gum—
lush in the field on TV while I eat pizza in a place where the waitress
has a black eye her swept hair doesn’t hide. I think I should feel
sorrow for her but I could be wrong and if I said something
I might embarrass us both. What could I offer anyway? My mind
is the mist obscuring the moon. My mind is the horse
fenced in a field. Why do we worry like we do about how long
the stray chin hair has been there; the tragedy of spinach stuck
in teeth; about backsides perhaps too small? None of us
are getting out of here alive. I saw the bruise. I saw the dog.
She died by machine. She sleeps by the side of the road.
it killed the dog. Today, I saw fields of lupine. They grow
on racemes, colored like strawberry milk and grape chewing gum—
lush in the field on TV while I eat pizza in a place where the waitress
has a black eye her swept hair doesn’t hide. I think I should feel
sorrow for her but I could be wrong and if I said something
I might embarrass us both. What could I offer anyway? My mind
is the mist obscuring the moon. My mind is the horse
fenced in a field. Why do we worry like we do about how long
the stray chin hair has been there; the tragedy of spinach stuck
in teeth; about backsides perhaps too small? None of us
are getting out of here alive. I saw the bruise. I saw the dog.
She died by machine. She sleeps by the side of the road.
Biography
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Kalyn Livernois (she/her) is an MFA student at New England College. She lives in the NC mountains where she moonlights as an oyster shucker in training. She is a prose editor at Cobra Milk and the managing editor of Variant Literature's journal. Her work has most recently appeared in Door=Jar, Anti-Heroin Chic, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. You can find her on Twitter @kalynroseanne.
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