“It Ain’t All Hugs and Handshakes”
sang sly prophecy
in slang. Crime in Stereo,
crime conceived us that fall and
he hid the needles in his speakers
I’ll give you a minute to find it funny.
Only I, messed up on warm blood and bass drums
could fall for bad haircut, Bad Brains
t-shirt, black eye—
You say, I can’t see what there is to love.
But hands in hands in each other’s pockets in
satin golf course sand we drew dicks.
They wrote me a song in the moonlit barn
and I shook.
They called me Coldy Coldskins and it stuck.
Counting to seven it came hunting, remember
stalked and snatched him in dead-leaf wind and
syringes, in sirens and slashed walls, remember.
I crawled on scuffed knees, cracked knuckles
trees like traitors
came clean and bowed to winter.
–Kristina M Sarhadi
Kristina is the editorial director of Blak Licorice. Her work has appeared in literary journals throughout the US and UK. She holds a BA from Vassar College, an MSW from USC, and several other acronyms.