The truth of your uvula


I wish I could touch the inside of your skull.

It is mine if I hold you

In my mouth like an alligator.

We flew a bunch of kites today.

One cloud resembled Kentucky.

I winced when you smiled over all the pretty children

And the goldenrod daggered me to the gutsó

The very guts.

If I could pull out my innards

And steep the apartment

With my innermost stench

Youíd go ahead and say itó

What a beauty.

Iíve peered into your ear and saw the futurish.

I held my eyes shut long enough

To imprint eye-dialogue

On my sweet little hypothalamus.

Each of your laughs has a smell.

Cindy says I should see less of you

If I really want to see you

With my big damn eyes.

A giant tumbleweed clicks

Itself across the tile dog-like.

Bartholomew is jealous of the way

I douse my self in your cereal

to get inside of you.

Everything you eat, I inhabit

To get inside of you.

Sometimes, nasty things I think about you.

Such rotten garden pumpkin all over your face.

One day Iíll sit cross legged

At the edge of the pool.

When you come up for air

Youíll open up your mouth

And let me see inside.


from I'm going to save your life


You dance and yellow sparklers shred your face apart.

Itís like the sun looking in a mirror.

I want to take a little trowel and lift your feet from their heels,

from their shoes, from you. We are such good friends.

We are sisters sometimes if I let our legs touch in sleep.

The only field that ever prepared me for our friendship

is the one that isnít there anymore. You know how they have been building

Atlantic Yards for like a million years?  Thatís a field too. You.




I mean that we are looking over our shoulder as that man followed us

home to your apartment. I mean that you are stupid with trust

and I feel it is my duty to get you to love ellipses or admit that the universe

and all its dumb solar systems are as tethered to your destiny

as the Golden Gate bridge is to suicide.

Glorify yourself. I want you to forget owls and melt

the jewelry tools into telescopes

through which I will show you your entire

future in the photograph of a prairie.

There is so much I cannot tell you about our lives.

There is so much that your mouth must do,

so much it must have wanted to keep 

a part of you young always.

Four baby teeth still holding fast to your head.


Christie Ann Reynolds has an MFA in Poetry from The New School. She is the author of Revenge Poems (Supermachine 2010), Girl Boy Girl Boy (The Corresponding Society 2010) and idiot heart (The New School 2008). She is the co-curator of The Stain of Poetry Reading Series in Brooklyn, NY, teaches writing at Hofstra University and new poems or essays are forthcoming in Sink Review, Lit, Maggy, Barrelhouse, Big Lucks, Blaze Vox and others. Christie Ann is also the co-founder of a new non-profit called the Borough Writing Workshop.