southern comfort, or whiskey shots turned
thoughts of old family vacations
LILYANNE KANE
The airport
windows loom
wide. Think:
gaping like
eyes full
of headlights.
Father: still
as stone,
a silhouette,
a tightly
coiled fist
before us.
Mama: with
two hearts
inside of
her. Those
eyes older,
more tired
than light.
water to begin, water to end
LILYANNE KANE
Gingham and I sit poolside, legs dangling in the
water. A mosquito the size of a baby’s skull
floats upside down in the green-lit pool water.
She finds a twig with which to poke the insect.
My tattered N*Sync shirt has finally dried since
earlier when the makeshift preacher dunked me
under. All that holy water up my nose and yet
still all I want is to take her hand in mine.
The bug tries to pull its lanky body to air.
Gingham holds it beneath the surface. Its
wings twinkle like spiderwebs wearing
mother’s best dewdrops. Frantic, they beat.
ode to linen
LILYANNE KANE
I steep chamomile tea,
stir in copious honey,
as thick as time, and
dissolving just as fast.
My fingers dance in
the steam, warm moisture
beads on my skin.
A grey-blue fleece
sky at the window.
I dip my hands in a
sack of cinnamon,
touch linen sheets
and pillows, leaving
sweet handprints.
I trace where your
figure once lay, curled.
I will pretend tonight in bed
that you have crawled in
dusted from a day of baking.
Lilyanne Kane is a non-binary butch lesbian poet and educator. They hold an MFA from the Mississippi University for Women. Their work can be found most recently in Passengers Journal, SOFTBLOW, and Okay Donkey Magazine. They can be found on Twitter @CrumbPrince.