Christie Ann Reynolds

from Halo in Retrograde



One-by-one we have

failed our creators

I stand for you on my steps

with knee-knives

I Santa Ana you but there is no

love in kamikaze

you are the reason for horoscopes

you are the terror

the world will be pleased to know not

all terror is female

your tattoo is a light   I flick with my fingers











there are people who sleep in my laundry

I shake the birds away with old sweatshirts

and stop seeking


but you       who even in zero denim

is more blue than the sky  spitting over a grove

you are the tourism of other’s bodies

at night        I can hear you

you’re just that mammal











we will live

we will see

dirty  humanism congeal

Twombly and Poussin eating

a croissant

the featured show

a premature open leg display

I give up the major spaces

for an active witness:


man of mystery

man o war

man oh man

things feel better

without the lights on











you had the fat

years I never had

tried to leave Twitter

got a digital hangover

tried to listen to hip hop

to become


oh your odyssey

oh your stolen land

I am a Northern love story too

I dream in lobster

and when I dream of lobsters

their meat twitches

inside their shell











wrap you up

in my love

all over

all over

you hear the bells

and you take me

as your hero

call me Katerina of Id

say Katerina a hero

can be

condensation forming

on the hood

of a faucet

or someone

who invites you

to all the parties

the ones with dancing

in the kitchen











I keep the armpit



I can feel my heart

when I poke

around in there











Tell me the ways of your way

your way being

inside to outside karmaloops

this room resembles

nocturnal version of a fortress

without superheroes

you must listen

to water slosh in a pail—

the sound of a small

amount of water

will save you












on your tits

at the wedding revealed nipples

wasn’t embarrassing but realistic

then the forest

pants riding hips

the next morning there was

standing in the back of a pick-up truck

sun revealed dirt moons

under fingertips











Dzanc’s drawing called Fuck the Eclipse

Is the universe

messenger-ing me that _______ is dating

a red head with perfect vision

tilts her head when her hand hurrah’s

she must know how to play basketball











I saved

the last few threads

of your hair

caught in a piece

of tape

on an old birthday card


today I woke up with a beard

felt like a savage


CHRISTIE ANN REYNOLDS is the author of Revenge for Revenge (Coconut Books) and the chapbook Texts from my Mom (Big Lucks). She lives in Brooklyn and teaches science and language arts at a middle school.