Hillary Katz’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Salamander, burntdistrict, A cappella Zoo, Rufous City Review, and other journals. She is an Editorial Assistant for Weave Magazine. Originally from Vermont, she now lives and works in San Francisco.
Between you and me there is the flesh of space we fill with more flesh we fill with wine with lentil soup and hikes in city park and trips across the country and all the while we are just two close bodies and even though you hate pigeons you will sit on a public bench with me and watch them pick at each other’s toes because you know the importance of sadness. Here, there are rats living where your friends should be and the only earthquake I’ve felt was smaller than an orgasm. There, where I used to be, my friend who is my age calls herself old and she is haggard, yes, but not defeated. Here, there is light at night like flashes of a wrecked city and the constant reminder that a life can crumble overnight like an abandoned building. There, everyone is ready for a release but we all have lived in one place for so long we have lost the ability to fly. And if we live in the dark long enough, eventually we will be born without eyes. The needs we press away make mountains of themselves. Then the mountains become our life. Then the earth shifts and everything falls into itself, anyway.