The 2River View 18.4 (Summer 2014)

April Krivensky


We fed you typewriter keys and pumpkin seeds.
Took you on long drives to local murky ponds.
The three of us nickeled and dimed our way through aeronautics
while exploring the ideologies of tuna casserole
and cheese omelets.

In Nevada your throat feels itchy.
Harsh. Bark.
Hugging your uvula in chicken pox.
Brittle bones line the inside of your posture.
Brittle neurons never make you smile anymore.
70% tape. 30% eyeglasses.
What is so difficult about staying vertical?
A horse on a carousel keeps its balance.

One speed down Superior.
A fixed gear bike carries me like a sack
of potatoes over its shoulder.
From when I can't make it from the toilet to the bed.
From when I fall asleep on the couch and the t.v is still on.
The florescent an indicator that we care about
some things.

Gums bleeding.
Cotton under my fingernails.
He ropes through my mane and I pretend to be sleeping.
A bed of pockets where I can rest with the lint.
I am the jellyfish.
You are the salt water.

Delta Wave

 Sunday consisted of two things:
death and bicycles.

My dog lays dying on the front yard and I’m watching
from my father’s bay window.
Donald took a shot gun to its skull and proceeded to walk
back in.
Loading again, he says “You know this next one is for me, right?”
Now my dad and dog are both laying
on the front yard and all the sudden I’m on a bicycle trying to
pick it up to get over a two foot wooden wall.
Everything was so heavy.
Everything was so heavy.

I sweat through my shirt that night.
I was more upset about my dog.

April Krivensky studies at the University of Illinois Urbana—Champaign. Her work has been featured in Bluepepper, Lake City Lights, and The Orange Room Review. Her mother and older sister are her biggest heroes for all their support and endless love.

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