Poetry
[ Lyndsie Conklin ]

SUMMER AND RYE

Hell must not be that bad
if it tastes anything like the whisky
on your lips. That shot glass nibble
is just enough to numb my tongue
from complaining year after year
about how dewy my underarms
feel within your active crowds
begging me to sin again.

The dry heat spreads
in the oscillating fans, and dies
on the sweat beads I push
from your brow. You hug tight
in my chest and fuzz in my breasts
while I gift you a copper sunset
wet on my finger and sweltering
beyond my mythical holy lands.

Loiter in my fervid and dizzy
yourself with swigs of my liquor.
I get drunk on the same combo
wishing my internal inferno
resembled the late burn of summer
keeping the hellish heat for too long.
No smoke. No fire. Just honey rye
aged in your sweet mouth barrel.

SUMMER SNACKING

She apologizes again for the humidity seeping
through the window. Yet I don’t cease gleaning
the heat between her thighs.

CAN I HAVE SOME (WILD FLOWERS)?

If you’re giving away kisses,
may I collect one?
Not a singular peck.

I want to scythe the residual dust
of others stringing from your lips
a combination of pollen
left wild on your border.
You leave your garden breathless,
heaving with whims
whipping themselves for more.
Your Hotwire fences,
never free of tongue debris.
It zaps the thick growth
of all the invasive flowers
who never last the winter.

Tour me through
all your intimate details
I’m able to cross without
removing your dressings.
I’ll give you more
than the warmth of my hand
and a begging tone,
if you let me root
beyond your threshold.

I am a seedling with desires
of being planted
within your window box
where you could finger
under my skirt-leaves daily,
see my color thriving
no matter the weather.

I’d gladly take less
of your soft acreage
just to hold you
by the small of your back,
to feel a hastened blow
to my unruly curls in my face,
a tiny usurp of air
clipping a natural blockage
for you to find a footpath
to my lips again.

If you’re giving away kisses,
may I collect one?
I’d settle as a wild flora
left dizzy on your fence line,
waving at you in the spring.

Lyndsie Conklin (she/her) is a Montanan transplanted to Colorado, living with her husband and cat, Beans. She enjoys getting outside, being a cat mom, eating breakfast foods, Diet Coke, oversharing Type 1 Diabetic memes, and writing poetry and erotica. Lyndsie attempts to find romance, beauty, and darkness hidden within the little things while highlighting these tiny, gross darlings within complex, current topics, such as mental health, LGBTQ+, and women’s issues. Lyndsie holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from Western Colorado University and a Master of Education in Higher Education Administration from Post University. Some of her work has been featured in Soupcan Magazine, Twenty Bellows, Pile Press, and Beyond the Veil Press. Follow her on Instagram/Threads @lc_poetics or Bluesky @lc-poetics.bsky.social