December 15, 2018 >

December 15, 2018 >


Three Poems

by Chris Costello

We Can’t Sleep

Even though we’ve taken
to using one another
as pillows, and turning
all the lights off.

We can’t, of course, stop
the glittering building next to us,
but we draw the blinds

and we tell ourselves
that’s the same thing
not seeing something
is the thing not being there

Emergency Room

There’s a kind of smoky silence here
sweet and beckoning. This is the
language of history or possibly
victory. Hard to tell the difference.
These days we are waiting
for the flatline, for the dream to end.
We want to walk the streets at night
holding hands, but we haven’t yet
received diagnoses, and the medication
is highly experimental.

What My Heartbeat Says in the Dark

I will run you until you collapse
In the woods, a jogger
will find your body but not before the squirrels
have made off with the last of your breath.
I will pound you into the dirt
until your sneakers come apart
at the seams. I will lace your mouth tight
and you will thank me for it.


Chris Costello is a writer, editor, and student in New York. Their work has appeared in "Ghost City," "Ink and Voices," and "The Mighty," among others.