Hooligan Mag Issue #30

Page 32

how I saw you again and didn’t die by Lillian Sickler

I found you in the watery light of St. Michael’s parking lot as it bent inside the kitchen. it was mineral, more a hum than a gasp. you were tense by the window, sucking on the pit of an olive. I just didn’t want to tell you that salt did not originate in the ocean but rather from rocks older than the moon. this memory comes in through the front door, hard and flashy as nickels. I am still afraid of the half-dead wolf. I still guard the pear-soft foals, all I can think of is how you filled my chest with your hands, making love to me with your mouth open while mine was pinched closed like a change purse. all I’ve become is taken up by the high crescendo of missing you, tight and long like steam through a hollow metal pipe. I pass a collapsed mine, I come to the edge of a quarry and miss the whole world. my hands smell like horses, my breath dark and feathery