Ben Kline

Bonfire

The burn high
in my belly, left
of the dangling
rib, the fire semi-
circled by grayer gays,

a boombox, processed
meats on buttered maple
twigs, beer foam,
green luna swarming
disappointments our mothers

abandoned in creek silt–
I’m watching the others
undress, their cocks
wiggling. My skewer gnarls
and chars, promising

relief, its ashen lumps
caressing my hiatal
until I’m empty again.
The circle begins
to spin. My medicine

lasts hours, cold milk
minutes, beer elevates
belch to aria. I’m not
tragic every day.
I join the dervish,

throw my underwear
into the flames, our chorus
leaping the plume,
my belly a sizzle
to a sear. I’m not

sure how this ends.

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Ben Kline (he/him) lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. Author of the chapbooks Sagittarius A* and Dead Uncles, Ben was the 2021 recipient of Patricia Goedicke Prize in Poetry. His work is forthcoming or can be found in Southeast Review, THRUSH, CutBank, fourteen poems, The Holy Male, The Indianapolis Review, Limp Wrist and many other publications. You can read more at https://benklineonline.wordpress.com/.