Poems from hollystimson
because science and religion won’t mix.
Rope burns hands more slowly
than necks, which were made
for breathing and vessels,
not breaking,...
I thumb through the index of my life
and there is no “love” under “L”—
only “lust” and “lost.”
I worry that you weren’t
there in my pages...
That was a do-you-
remember-where-
you-were-when-
Elvis-died day.
Bold marchers stretched
thin as the casing
trail to cafeteria tables.
No...