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Kell Connor lives in Nebraska. Recent work appears in Big Lucks, Bennington Review, and Reality Beach. Contact them at PO BOX 29522 Lincoln NE 68529, or at

2 poems

by Kell Connor


So when you say hers
it means mine and also I’m
a man at times. It works
however I say it works.
A worse past, a thorn
grown from a throne’s
side, a rose lowered
into our landlord’s
groin. My debt
like a dog heeling
ceaselessly. How hard
it heeds me, it needs
to herd me. We know
one trick: speak. That’s
silence, the book’s
true binding, to say
the least. Yes in venom
or invisible ink. Inevitably
she writes on the line
thus signing the last lease.



Having it all, having all
these legs, and living
in prison, or in traction,
back broken, or living
in liquid, gurgling,
languid, ass-backwards,

and they live in ski
resorts. They live
on the ski lifts. Just having
a laugh, a bust lung.
Way, way above.
But they say warm.
It’s thin air. They wear
it. See, everything
has bad fantasy.

Live mice frozen
in blocks of ice. Boxes
and boxes of them.

It’s no way to live,
a long line of mice.
They live in conditions,
okay, in strictly
controlled conditions.

Okay but there are limits.
Fine but how do we enforce them.
Blindly. Okay. Fine. With many

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