He Left Me He left me to go to Indiana University. After we broke up, drinking slushies at 7-11 I visited Lake Michigan collected stones and beach glass, dove in waves. After we broke up, drinking slushies at 7-11 I visited a lighthouse blinking green boats along the canal, sails risen dinner of pike at Clementine’s. I visited a lighthouse blinking green a handful of beach glass and ice cream cones dunes along the shore like shoulders I could grab, I could hold. A handful of beach glass and ice cream cones sitting in the cabin listening to thunder and rain reading about horses in a desert galloping with a woman, alone, riding bareback.
Valentine’s Sonnet I had a dream of dying with you in a field of thistle and flax, where golden goats grazed. When I reached for you, your hand yielded to my careful thirst, my mind a dark maze. We looked to the sky of day and night at once, a bright sun to the left, a white moon next to it with its sky dark, and light that lunged across our bodies like grass and grief and sex. Never before have I laid down my rage when the wind chiseled us and kissed our bones of silent, hidden hums, a music like sage that I pick for you, even when I feel alone. They say sage purifies; it cleanses of ghosts. I’ve loved before, but I love you the most.
Kika Dorsey is a poet and fiction writer in Boulder, Colorado, and lives with her two children, husband, and pets. Her books include Beside Herself (Flutter Press, 2010) and three full-length collections, Rust, Coming Up for Air (Word Tech Editions, 2016, 2018), and Occupied: Vienna is a Broken Man and Daughter of Hunger (Pinyon Publishing, 2020). She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times. Currently, she is an instructor of English at Front Range Community College and works as a writing coach, editor, tutor, and ghostwriter.
Grand Little Things 