Christopher Hivner

Shy

by Christopher Hivner

I watch you

but don’t say hi.

The note you found

in your mail

was from me,

unsigned I know,

but I meant

every word.

I tried to be poetic

in professing my love,

like Shakespeare

or Neruda,

although those two

never had to work in

“the severed head” or

“your eyelids flutter

when you sleep.”

I have mapped

every step you’ve taken

for the past year

so I always know

where you are

or where you will be.

Someday,

when I get over

my shyness

I will introduce myself

to you

and we can begin.

This Desolation

by Christopher Hivner

My ship has run aground

on an island of shrubs

and rock,

my mate is dead,

and I am starving

on sticks, dirt

and boiled sea water.

The remnants of the Sarah M

sway in the waves,

planks breaking loose

to drift away,

one more piece of me gone.

The beach is covered

in S.O.S messages,

I scan the horizon

as I fish for food to live

but the waters seem to be barren

and the horizon lost.

The paper on which I write

this last statement

was torn from a book

in my trunk

that washed ashore intact.

Apologies to the author

but your words

were of no comfort to me

in my weeks of need

so your pages have become

my epitaph.

Goodbye to the Sarah M,

my home for two years

in my search for

a place to belong.

Perhaps I have found it after all,

here on this desolation

is mayhaps

where I have been destined

all along.

Night Poem

by Christopher Hivner

I can’t see

to write,

attempting an

outside vibe,

but the sun

has gone down,

now I sit

in the dark

with an electric poem

wallowing in my head,

my handwriting in the notebook

disjointed lines

forming not so much words

as hieroglyphics

with no translation.

Go inside, you say,

but the atmosphere

is different there,

artificial light,

separate smells,

no noises of nature,

only the groan

of ancient water pipes

and the slither

of ghosts in the walls.

If I walk away

from my outside mojo

it may not follow me

past the force field

of the door frame.

The poem could be lost

and what if it’s the one,

the lines I’ve been

trying to write

for thirty years?

What if it

could unlock being me

or explain

why people leave?

What if it’s funny

and makes readers laugh?

What if it’s the last poem

I ever write,

one final idea

that solves everything?

My ruminations

have distracted me

while the poem

made its escape,

walking right out of my head

past my pen.

I was a fool

to think I could

capture a night poem

in the light

and now I have to pay

the starry muse

with blank paper.

Plate Tectonics

by Christopher Hivner

The shift was soft

at first,

the movement underfoot

sent small shudders

beneath my skin.

The quiet from her space

registered as

a temporary misfire

after years of test work.

I walked room to room

not seeing the cracks

in the foundation,

not feeling the pressure building.

Time became unbearable,

words were eaten

and swallowed

with a dry mouth,

silence tethered us

with wire

pierced through our lips,

drops of blood

running along the metal brace

to meet in the middle

and fall to the floor.

The rupture that knocked me down

came when she spoke

so matter-of-factly.

As our chain snapped back in my face,

dead words

dropped from her mouth.

I fell

into an open crevasse,

her voice

chasing along behind.

Plumes of ash

sprouted into the air

obscuring her face,

rumbling like a derailed train

closed around me

but when she spoke again

the words still got through.

We settled

as the sun went down,

me here,

she out in the fog.

I scavenged in the rubble

for a list of days,

finding solace

in my position

as King of empty space

where the doors stay shut

to hide my body,

wrapped in bloody wire,

her words

still singing

in the vibrations.

*****

Seeking

by Christopher Hivner

I walked through

the fire

to reach you,

the flames still

flaring on my skin

as we touched,

but instead of putting

me out

you poured gasoline

over my body

and threw a lighter

at my feet.

My gait through

the conflagration

has slowed

but I’m on my way

following your

trail of sulfur.

Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Monomyth and Weird Reader. Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams