Poetry by Kersea Calhoun

Kersea Calhoun is a queer educator and mother. She holds a B.A. in English from Colorado Mesa University and an M.A. from Arizona State University. Her work has been featured in the CMU Literary Review and Velvet Grey, and is forthcoming in Beyond Queer Magazine, Wailing & Gnashing, and Poet's Choice. She lives and teaches in Maine.

Not Allergic, Just Sensitive

I crunch down lentils—
cumin, cilantro, and jalapenos
burn down my throat,
sit heavy with fried tortillas
in my belly—

when the bowl’s empty
I lie spent
like a wild hog flattened
against asphalt, abdomen
swelling in the sun—
nearly able to savor
the warmth of fullness
like bare skin meeting shine
through slants of cypress—

like my hands gripping
your splayed legs, burying my
face, and my navel
avoiding the growl
that will come later,

when twisted intestines burst
with fermented lentils,
and I
stuff you in my innards,
welcome the bloat.

Summer-time Sludge

Come May, the kids’ bodies
shed layers like snakes
uncoiling from winter,
clamor to convince
me to open the pool—

and when I finally relent,
sweat the cover, cuss the pipes,
burn off coagulated
sloughs of last summer’s
skin and sunscreen,
suck the floor of abandoned toys,

I dive the net and remember
why I hate this goddamn pool—

I’m the scum
that collects
in the corners,
no matter how many passes
a skimmer makes,
I’m never
quite gone.

I’m a grasshopper
who misjudged my jump,
can’t scale the vinyl wall,
splinters of a sycamore leaf
spit from the mower.

The grime from dipped feet.
The slime from noses,
wiped away to

bind it all together—

Chew on This

Does the tick
know its own disease—
know the bitter
taste of spring?

Does it choose
the bravest or
the biggest—

Genuflect
before each meal—
give thanks the
third?

Or does the Lone
Star chew a legacy—

Prove
it’s worth
remembering.