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Kristen Rouisse



Then the water

honed to peaks:


bruised-velvet range

and punched moon.


Only you

could piece me,


soft and bright.

Write a eulogy


for my neurons.

Wound this holy


sliver of winter

so we’ll always


remember it by scar.

How the raging orchestra


was nothing

but metronome.


How each tick landed

heavier than the last.


On Nights I Forget the Mouth Works Both Ways


Maybe it’s not

just an exit


ramp anticipating

the confetti of headlights


or the doe,



If I could

move in reverse


would her neck still bow

by the woodline,



and just as hungry?







It’s maple

seeds masquerading as wings


or faux-bioluminescence;

the ability to glow


or glower.

Because we argue


in fluids—filthy

hands and filthier noses.


Nothing behind that smile

pulled so tight your teeth hurt.


Nothing but amber

light and leaving.

Lindsay Tigue poems

Kristen Rouisse is a Florida-based writer who holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of South Florida. Her work has appeared in RHINO, Lunch Ticket, Hobart, and elsewhere.

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