Before proteins from chromosome 7 rush to imprint the blue linger of your

lover’s thumb searching the dry gulch of your hip and thigh for the source,

you become accustomed to his name turning a sunset red and reaching back

into nights when he would undress, acting as gravity intends after light has

passed, not suspecting you are a remnant shining across time already traveled.


Hailing from the farm valleys of west Appalachia, Ben Kline lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, toiling away on his full-length manuscript Twang while drinking just the right amount of bourbon, but more coffee than seems wise. His work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Toe Good, Rappahannock Review, Grist Online, Riggwelter, Trailer Park Quarterly, The Mantle, Ghost City Review, apt, ImageOutWrite Vol. 7, The Offing, Impossible Archetype and many more. You can read more at