WE SANG ALONG TO SONGS ON THE RADIO 

We were ambulances
rushing away from crimes
we had willingly committed, not knowing
the bigger emergency lay ahead.
Pretzeling our arms into sailor knots,
we sang to songs we knew by heart,
even when the radio blared white noise.

It was a start-stop motion
as the mountains sucked us in
like a bad French kiss, we screamed
love songs over the staccato static,
made all the louder by
our heart silence. Each burst
of almost-recognizable anthem,
a siren sound leading us
to the next disaster.

 

TWO PEOPLE KISSED IN A CHURCH

Like, really went at it. I watched them
and thought about the homeless man outside
that at 9PM sharp the priest would boot off the steps
and I thought, let them fucking kiss.

I wanted to see their clothes fall off
like napkins off a picnic table.
Her lipstick smear across his neck;
a red gill he will gasp through
as he nurses the scoop in her shoulder
with his hungry mouth.
Closing it firmly and sealing her in
sarcophagus-like.

I wanted to see them fall into the confessional
while I take pictures of the nave.
They will confess, crossing one another
with fingers that shake.


PATTIE FLINT is a poet and bookbinder that spends her time between Brighton, England, and San Francisco, California. She has her MFA in poetry from Cedar Crest College and has been published in Amsterdam Quarterly, Five [Quarterly], and the Wisconsin Review, among others. In her spare time she enjoys rock climbing and music. Find her at @pattieflint on Twitter or at pattieflint.com.