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Kirk Windus is a fiction writer and poet from western New York. He
graduated from St. Bonaventure University with a journalism degree.
His work has previously published at Across the Margin, Literally
Stories and will appear at Ink in Thirds in October. These poems are
part of an ongoing chapbook project titled Thumbtacks. Kirk aspires
to both write and drink like Hemingway.
Grave Diggers
Kirk Windus
The sink’s veneer chipped away, swirling in crimson bubbles. Iron
on my gums. The white reveals the dull gray underbelly, and you
ask, can they see the scars? You tug at your sleeves. I say no.
You never really asked, and I only answered subliminally.
You asked why I brushed my teeth so violently. The crushed
veneer on your chipped skin. I never asked why you lived so
violently.
You loved so beautifully.
But I bled after we kissed. You said I was biting my lip again.
We scraped the cemetery fence for hours. Primed it for paint.
Laid in the grass with the granite. You said you felt so connected
to the stars. Ran your fingers over the carved names. We chose a
plot, to lie rib to rib. I said I couldn’t see Orion. You traced my
fingers across the sky. My eyes were closed.
I cut your sleeves off in my dreams. From miles away. I rush to
pick you off the floor. You bled on the countertops. And I still
can’t find Orion in the sky.
112 Typehouse Literary Magazine