Kimberly Hall
Therapeutics
– a golden shovel / after RHCP
Check first for sharps behind my soft
palate. Torches. Gunpowder, waiting to be spoken
into air, a kiss, a tongue laced with
sparks. Words skip & tumble like a broken
weir, spit bloody into cupped hands. Needle through jaw
trying to close the wound. To step
-count backwards until the light outside
splits its own eye, & the sun rises blue but not
weeping. Itching readies under my skin as if to brawl &
instead edges like late summer into autumn’s
ache – the turn so sweet, we
forget sometimes to call it
revolution. Red crowns lining the sky until they fall – I’ll
uncurl my fist this time. Cross my heart & make it
a bridge – my wrist, a ladder to the moon
just waiting for my hands to reach. & if I
can unhook the needle before winter, I won’t even have to
run for it. Take a breath. I won’t even have to crawl.
(note: this poem is a golden shovel, composed using lyrics from “Scar Tissue” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers)
Check first for sharps behind my soft
palate. Torches. Gunpowder, waiting to be spoken
into air, a kiss, a tongue laced with
sparks. Words skip & tumble like a broken
weir, spit bloody into cupped hands. Needle through jaw
trying to close the wound. To step
-count backwards until the light outside
splits its own eye, & the sun rises blue but not
weeping. Itching readies under my skin as if to brawl &
instead edges like late summer into autumn’s
ache – the turn so sweet, we
forget sometimes to call it
revolution. Red crowns lining the sky until they fall – I’ll
uncurl my fist this time. Cross my heart & make it
a bridge – my wrist, a ladder to the moon
just waiting for my hands to reach. & if I
can unhook the needle before winter, I won’t even have to
run for it. Take a breath. I won’t even have to crawl.
(note: this poem is a golden shovel, composed using lyrics from “Scar Tissue” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers)
Blue Blood
did you know? / it is the same easy trick of light / that colors
both / our oceans / & our veins / as a child I imagined little
rivers / rolling / our bodies like so much pasture / flatland to
hill country / I imagined these tender / threaded seams / a
simple remnant of evolution / no different / from the finger-
bone structure of bat wings / or whale flippers / no different
from the lanternfish / with their faces full of light / did you
know? / over seventy percent of the human / heart / is built
from water / chambered caverns pumping pink limestone /
red silt / platelet & coral all mottled by heat / & I worry / I
worry about oils spills / eutrophication / heavy metals in the
estuary / I worry about trophic cascades / & that between the
drought / the dry lightning / & wildfires in winter / some
rivers will forget themselves / forget their tumble & bloom /
their currents cut / away / from the evergreen furrows which
once flooded / every mouth / gave every tongue form &
reach / it is true / the history of love mirrors the history of
thirst / a slick curve of convergent morphologies / hook
shoulder to elbow to thigh / spine curling around a wound /
a throat opening / itself / willing to be slaked / it is true / all
rivers were once the same river / but so much water weighs
heavy / on a heart / & parched earth likes to harden / as
unforgiving as memory / as a child I dipped my fingers in
the bayou / playing Achilles / or maybe Virgil / I watched
them thread cordgrass & mullet / ripple & spear / like
pipefish through quivering shadow / low tide tugged like
cattails / & when I stole my hand back from it something /
slipped / caught / under my skin / something iridescent &
crushing / stretched tight / ready to burst / love / cut my hand
against your teeth / & the pressure is released / every river /
rushing / every shade of water before blue / & our blood /
brackish /
algal /
wine-dark /
(note: this poem is a caudate sonnet; its title borrows from a line in Ada Limón’s poem “Instructions on Not Giving Up”)
both / our oceans / & our veins / as a child I imagined little
rivers / rolling / our bodies like so much pasture / flatland to
hill country / I imagined these tender / threaded seams / a
simple remnant of evolution / no different / from the finger-
bone structure of bat wings / or whale flippers / no different
from the lanternfish / with their faces full of light / did you
know? / over seventy percent of the human / heart / is built
from water / chambered caverns pumping pink limestone /
red silt / platelet & coral all mottled by heat / & I worry / I
worry about oils spills / eutrophication / heavy metals in the
estuary / I worry about trophic cascades / & that between the
drought / the dry lightning / & wildfires in winter / some
rivers will forget themselves / forget their tumble & bloom /
their currents cut / away / from the evergreen furrows which
once flooded / every mouth / gave every tongue form &
reach / it is true / the history of love mirrors the history of
thirst / a slick curve of convergent morphologies / hook
shoulder to elbow to thigh / spine curling around a wound /
a throat opening / itself / willing to be slaked / it is true / all
rivers were once the same river / but so much water weighs
heavy / on a heart / & parched earth likes to harden / as
unforgiving as memory / as a child I dipped my fingers in
the bayou / playing Achilles / or maybe Virgil / I watched
them thread cordgrass & mullet / ripple & spear / like
pipefish through quivering shadow / low tide tugged like
cattails / & when I stole my hand back from it something /
slipped / caught / under my skin / something iridescent &
crushing / stretched tight / ready to burst / love / cut my hand
against your teeth / & the pressure is released / every river /
rushing / every shade of water before blue / & our blood /
brackish /
algal /
wine-dark /
(note: this poem is a caudate sonnet; its title borrows from a line in Ada Limón’s poem “Instructions on Not Giving Up”)
Sonnet with the Strange Idea of Continuous Living
Revolution, & every shade of green eventually turns
to yellow. To leaf litter. Empty limb. Orbital temper
taking the earth by storm. Season of hurricanes, season
of drought, season of chill & flu. Now COVID. Season of
unprecedented again – of temperatures rising again, rivers
rising again, infection rates rising again. Season of why
are you wearing that mask again? Of I’ll pray for you
again. Of please control your thermostat so you don’t over-
power the grid again. My whole body rages
against it – split roots riven with mast cells, all pick
-axe hacking when neither branch nor throat can be
coddled into swallow. Some days develop a callus.
Some days the wounds won’t close. & still,
somehow blossoms. Still, the earth cheers again,
again! & every shade of yellow
retrieves itself. Returns to green. Eventually.
to yellow. To leaf litter. Empty limb. Orbital temper
taking the earth by storm. Season of hurricanes, season
of drought, season of chill & flu. Now COVID. Season of
unprecedented again – of temperatures rising again, rivers
rising again, infection rates rising again. Season of why
are you wearing that mask again? Of I’ll pray for you
again. Of please control your thermostat so you don’t over-
power the grid again. My whole body rages
against it – split roots riven with mast cells, all pick
-axe hacking when neither branch nor throat can be
coddled into swallow. Some days develop a callus.
Some days the wounds won’t close. & still,
somehow blossoms. Still, the earth cheers again,
again! & every shade of yellow
retrieves itself. Returns to green. Eventually.
--
Kimberly Hall (she/her) is a queer and neurodivergent writer based in Southeast Texas. She holds degrees in psychology and behavioral science. Her first collection of poetry, Honey Locust, was published in December 2024 by hotpoet inc.
Kimberly Hall (she/her) is a queer and neurodivergent writer based in Southeast Texas. She holds degrees in psychology and behavioral science. Her first collection of poetry, Honey Locust, was published in December 2024 by hotpoet inc.