He says we’re just wafer-fish,
but when the hooks first scratched at us,
they spearheaded our own catches
and surprising lack of confetti-cupcake release.
He wants her because she is a glass-bottomed dreamer,
sporting webbed propellers
for slinking in the sour underbelly.
He resents that a terrarium could sprout in her,
that when roasted,
she becomes a discerning griddle.
I shoot out my salted web;
he thinks he can spin it into caramels,
launch those pincushions of the patriarchy.
But trust me; they would just hit us like fur on metal,
Rubik’s cubes abandoned in our winter wonderland.
International Pig Exchange
Something is inherently political about exporting pigs in wedding gowns.
Like electric wands to the nerves of all the states they slide through.
Western husbands pepper their pigs with gravel,
hoard them in rubber bomb shelters
where they melt into meadows of fashionable pinkskin.
Pagan husbands shelve their twine,
asking their pigs to form a phalanx
around what westerners call the “Venus of Willendorf.”
The stowaway-woman knows this terminology is wrong.
She sprinkles its daguerreotypes into the fodder:
only what’s documented can be wrong.
The Cool Gang circa 2015
Kids hunt cross-legged on their neoprene loincloths and spare ribs.
They hang candies over the sepulcher, the pools kneeling to them in record time.
They were born in frying pans, so they kick over the milk bowls.
They collect pullovers made of smart-ash, wad them up, spit them out,
make soggy summerdough.
KATIE HIBNER's poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Bone Bouquet, smoking glue gun, Souvenir and Yes, Poetry. She reads for Salamander and Sixth Finch. Katie is currently studying at Bennington College.