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"IX" by Kirk Pinho

Home & sometimes I don't know what yo call you, Southpaw
              &

Home & you were the size of a mango & conspired like a chalk
              outline to stop agape the foot traffic on Huron Street &

Home & there were eyes, a bladder kick & A turnip resting
              under the cloche, and ampersand looking at once for
Home & a place to fuck & 

                          Home & Two stories up, I find you, the smell of
Home & 
              of your soft head like nickel & Home & 

Home & the place of spades & in hearts & in the terrarium in
                                                                    the dull
               glower of afternoon, of French roast mornings & 

Home, where we’ll return every night, & 

Home to see your shadows shrink to fit snug 
                                                                                     inside your skull. 

Kirk Pinho is a newspaper editor, political reporter, and English composition instructor. A graduate of the University of Alabama MFA Program in Creative Writing, his work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Journal, Wisconsin Review, Paper Darts, decomP, burntdistrict, The Offending Adam, and elsewhere. He lives in the Detroit area with his fiancé and their newborn daughter, Evie. You can find him at hellokirkpinho.com.