Sounds Fake

by Ben Kline

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Life’s assignments are inherent: for most people
it’s procreation or fame or art. For me, a queer

aged out of revolutions by two pandemics
and acrobatic positions accidentally 

posted on main, it’s beauty, 
and my marrow agrees 

to propagate every new age spot, 
every curl and cramp of my toes, 

my fingers swooping inside 
leisurely lines, every -ing  

my forked tongue slips behind my gums
at a reading. Call it ars poetica for

the once and future damned. 
Or, poeti-ca-ca, as my mother said

every time my poems said too much 
of what we left unspoken. It changes

now that she’s a night breeze 
whispering Sounds fake, 

but you can keep it, 
and I keep writing 

about my exes, the first pandemic 
I wasn’t supposed to survive

to see forty, let alone fifty. I pursue 
beauty in lines like He unzips 

a Republican stench 
and I felt guilty 

for being part of her unhappiness,
leaning into giving too much away

when my hips have given up all
together and her complaints crowd 

my dreams about Eighties pop stardom
and dead uncles pulling out teeth and condoms

to throw onstage when I snap 
my thong’s bedazzled strap.

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Ben Kline lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. A poet, information professional, and Madonna mega-fan/podcaster, Ben is the author of It Was Never Supposed to Be (Variant Literature,) Twang (ELJ Editions) and Stiff Wrist (fourteen poems.) His work has appeared in Copper Nickel, Florida Review, Palette Poetry, Hayden's Ferry Review, and other publications. bentheauthor on IG and Ben Kline on Bluesky.