THERE IS A SINGLE MOMS’ COLONY
 

on a roughaged planet
in a new england barn
 

they coat
self-expression
optic
 

proceed to spade
orgone
from the dendritic floor
 

orbit
a beam
rugose
with thanksgiving
while sighing out
 

collective shibboleth
 

a man in heat
harvests
the paper plates

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

STRAW MAN
 

The think tank paid for Scarecrow’s commute. They hired him last January; it was in his contract. By the time the car rolled up to his field each morning, he was already halfway through a Chick-fil-A Chicken Biscuit. The crows were absent. He analyzed voters in the Breadbasket. His desk clock was heart-shaped. He hung a medal in his cubicle. Phil poked fun at his postcard from Dorothy. It was coquettish, and it had a lipstick stain. Scarecrow never got promoted. Phil and Angie did. Scarecrow kept at his work. Scarecrow kept delaying his ride home. Scarecrow kept awake. They swept up his remains last December. His straw insides were flooded with espresso.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

CODE BLUE
 

I study at The Marine Institute
 

I ink every yaw’s path onto my cot
 

I skin philanthropy for the hunk of good gut
 

I cuddle a pillow shaped like Euripides
 

I rework the hairs of the faculty
I treasure them as sage hyphae
 

I improvise a roast
I rub it with artistic license
 

I check the colloquial mail socket every day
You better write me back tomorrow as Paul Bunyan
I’m the ox
I warn you it’ll be code blue when
You ax open
this cetacean lung

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

EARTH, KEPLER 452b
 

when a new planet swims into our ken
with threats of superior lifeforms:
 
 

self-quarantine in a freckled duplex
 

veiling bleach over our pingback psalter
 
 

cardinal-feather shunt swarming with topophiliacs
and prayed-to histamines
 
 

initialing the belly of the cow-monger
 
 

sponges of breadcrumbs
 

attempts to fork out a quilted layer
to dog this quadrant
 
 

recommissioned reflex mallets
 
 

integers scalped
by a braid of musk
 
 
 

but still, hiring pseudo-cabinets to negotiate with crust-language
and bats
 
 
 

a hopscotch game pearls
unnoticed
on the tease
of an ironic eyebrow
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

KATIE HIBNER is a confetti canon from Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poetry has appeared in Bone Bouquet, inter|rupture, Timber, TINGE, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Vinyl. Katie has read for Bennington Review, Salamander, and Sixth Finch. She dedicates all of her writing to the memory of her mother and best friend, Laurie.