Ben Kline
Hailing from the farmland valleys of the west Appalachian foothills, Ben Kline (he/him) lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. A poet, storyteller and Madonna podcaster, Ben spends his days at the University of Cincinnati Libraries, where he cofounded, coordinates, hosts the Poetry Stacked reading and workshop series. Ben is the author of the chapbooks Sagittarius A* and Dead Uncles, as well as the forthcoming full-length collections It Was Never Supposed to Be (Variant Literature) and Twang (ELJ Editions). His work has appeared in Poet Lore, Copper Nickel, Pithead Chapel MAYDAY, Florida Review, Southeast Review, DIAGRAM, Poetry, and other publications. You can read and learn more at his website.
It was supposed to be
wild violets bruising my nipples
& neck, every cock
a loaded gun,
the ropey cough
a lonely siren
⸻even then, I answered
Oh, I use condoms every time
⸻after watching all the uncles
cave into their bodies
& I was supposed to
die too, gagging on phlegm,
on every erection within reach,
lust an engine turning me
over & over & over more hands
⸻their fingers smoked blue by my cheap lube.
I dismissed every drop
of sweat caught on my pillow
-bitten dreams of acronyms for my wasted end.
I didn’t want to suffer the endless procession
of urgent purple flags
⸻but it was supposed to be
my fate, maybe my choice
until my seventh scare
⸻I learned a new word: retroviral.
A miracle my doctor said
I could try
if I tested positive
⸻I could take the cocktail,
count the pills & drink more
water, eat less meat
⸻a new regimen
for living the end.
I was negative & didn’t know
what I was supposed to
do with my life
⸻be an uncle, a lover of course
⸻but the rest remained without examples.
Maybe I’d finish my masters,
write my novel, buy a condo,
retire, even die of old age.
That summer I drove to DC with friends,
walked the edges of the quilt,
the conversations about civil unions,
who was going to The Fireplace
later, the full faith & credit
of domestic partnerships
⸻I heard men settling into safe
expectations, the inverse thrill
of legality, the freedom to be
seen. My friends were asking
strangers which bar had a sling
when I saw my uncle’s name
in the white-lettered black square
of his bowling team, with the date
June 28, 1992
⸻too soon, too late, not what the priest
who gave his eulogy said
it was supposed to be.
The high sun pricked my shoulders
⸻I declined my turn
in the sling.
I had time for more.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
© 2024 Iron Oak Editions
Stay Connected to Our Literary Community. Subscribe to Our Newsletter
Image by LightFieldStudios from Envato
Listen to Poem:
