Katie Sallee is an emerging writer from Richmond, Virginia. Katie has been writing poetry since she was 12 years old, and is currently a member of River City Poets in Richmond. She is an Oklahoma native, studying English at Oklahoma State University, and relocating for a Master's program in Social Work at Virginia Commonwealth University. She works at an environmental non-profit and has recently become the sole caretaker of three pine trees.

Katie Sallee

Run

 

they run

zigzag

through the dining room chairs

—hellions.

tie down their sister

Angie

to a kitchen stool

by her ankles—

leave her screaming

like always

for mother/maid/fairy godmother.

Mother says

we should tie them down with a leash.

Father says

boys will be boys

I say

we should give Angie

a knife.

Intimate

Reach for your pillow and hit

an arm leaning

against your bare skin.

He digs his fingers

into your hip—

it feels like love.

His outline faces

away from you,

hand searching behind him

for yours.

Form your body against his.

Your bare legs against each other

like things that fit together

 

not spoons. that’s too easy for a poem.

 

You love him so much

your core tightens when you look

at him. His curly hair

blue eyes.

 

The reason you haven’t written

poetry in months.

because you’re fucking 

happy 

you can’t write anymore

does it matter—

anymore?

 

But he means so much:

his smile,

impressions,

anxiety.

You have to make him immortal

for one moment

at an open mic.

 

You have to describe

love

the one thing 

you’re not supposed to describe

in a poem.

 

 

Painkillers

Plan a date

for drinks and an art show

skirt split past your thigh

Let him hold your hand

feel the weight of what could be either

love    or indigestion.

Rinse and repeat

with someone new next Friday night.

Wait for the alcohol

to make him cute / smart / funny.

 

Take him home.

 

Lock the door when he leaves

so you can fall asleep without thinking of

 

the one who left before you 

could fall back out of love.

 

Feel the weight of his hand in yours

 

so you don’t text the one miles away—

so you don’t tell him: when I dream,

 

I still dream of you.

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