Sick Eye by Charles Kell

Can tell you once more the selfish lie.

Every time you turn around he stands, arms
in the mirror,
reaching out to grab you. Keep it in the box,

your secret, the river-walk, last moment his finger

gripped the inside loop of your jeans. The blood
you licked off his bitten lip.

The left eye the tip of your tongue quickly slid
over.

Tastes like leather & salt. First ritual
when you’re convinced of another self.

I carved a fantasy in the tree with your rusty knife.

Left the car running, headlights frame your outline.
Fog & rain. Imagine another version.

Wonder what you’ll say tomorrow, when you wake,
head pounding, knowing he is gone forever, and you’re

still here?

© 2016 Charles Kell

 

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Bio:

Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.

 

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