June Bug

it is summer in the poem and we are living

three of us, in some family apartment

on the fourth floor perhaps sixth

every day, the hiss of onions

in the pan, and the pasta

always has beans in it

stacked on top of one another



we can’t reach the ceiling

and the doorknobs

keep falling off

at night on the balcony:

your moonmouth on my neck

you tell me another new thing

the plants half crispy around us

I know nothing really

belongs to me, but somehow

I have arrived in this moment like a tourist

in my own life

where having an opinion is terrifying

and exhilarating/               means having

to surrender to my own publicness

I want to beetle on my back

with my legs up in the air

I want to grow wings and buzz

in circles around the ceiling

I want to melt across your lap

and her lap

and hers, with

my top off in some dewy bedroom,

the windows open, and I am saying

yes yes yes until I have nothing

left to say

I love every minute of this stupid life

of loving and not knowing

or caring where

to draw the line

of getting really good at something
and letting everybody watch

Hannah Karpinski is a writer and editor living in Tiohtià:ke/Montreal. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Lemon HoundCommo MagazineMy Loves: Digital Anthology of Queer Love Poems (Ghost City Press), and Lesbians are Miracles, among others. She is the Publishing Assistant for Montreal-based independent publisher, Metatron Press.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.