When adulterers walk with the sun
at their backs, they try to align
the shadows of their hands,
so one might slip into the other—
a black hole, a rat snake’s burrow.
When they do merge, the adulterers feel
it in their genitals and grit their teeth.
This is what the beginning and the end
of something sounds like: a rock
stuck to the bottom of a shoe carving
concrete white, a tea kettle bottom
dragged rough along the burner, a pant
of approval, a hot breath in an ear.
Pomegranates remind me of the deer
hearts my family used to slice out
from hulked rib cages. How many
directions do arteries point? I would ask
when they butchered in the snow. Too many,
is what they would say—blood spurt
onto their cheeks. When I cut through
pomegranate shells for women I have loved,
or will love, how many ways will the rubies
flow out and onto the couch, the bed,
the shower? How many ways can
something that resembles a heart be split?
Kayla Rae Candrilli received a Bachelors and Masters in Creative Writing from Penn State University and is a current MFA candidate at the University of Alabama. Candrilli was awarded first place in Vela Magazine’s non-fiction contest and is published or forthcoming in The Chattahoochee Review, The Boiler, Puerto del Sol, CutBank, Pacifica Literary, and others.
Tags: Fruita Pulp, Kayla Rae Candrilli, Poetry, When adulterers walk with the sun