Len Kuntz

 

I Like You

I am not a stalker, but I like you.

Who wouldn’t?

Your choices are often odd but seldom wrong.  If there’s soup in summer, you’ll have it, slurping like a porpoise with that trilling giggle of yours.

You have a list of eight things you can never have too much of.  Seven of them make me quiver. 

You do not like animals other than stuffed ones, yet you pretend when your cousin, Pete, brings by his Lab. 

You are strong yet lithe and unmuscled.  I have posters of women with your shape of legs and the same small hands, though not one of the models can match you whole.

 Your eyes are ceramic blue.

I have made many attempts, some quite despicable.  Sometimes I hold my breath.

A climax can be gory or glorious, both bliss and release, but it’s not pity I want, or even forgiveness.

You should know that you are a permanent stain, a scar, a sickle cell, a long-worn smoke smell on my skin which soap cannot conquer or rid.

This is not enough but it’ll have to do.  I watch you from a safe perch, knowing where you are and what you’re doing, full of joy and promise in a life where I have left one foot in, and one foot out, of the picture.

CP

Len Kuntz lives in rural Washington State.  His writing appears in over 140 publications, at places like Necessary Fiction, Dogzplot, Word Riot and also at lenkuntz.blogspot.com

Len Kuntz

Grace

The kid in line looks broken, bent at the hip like a less than mark, as if he’s missing ribs on that side. He walks with a looping gait, ratchety, and kicks a stanchion so that it whirls before bouncing off the wall of glass and hitting me in the knee.

He doesn’t look up. He finds his wallet and buys his movie ticket just like anyone.

In grade school I wore Army Surplus clothes. I kept my bangs so long they’d curl at the ends, any way to hide myself, to camouflage the rash of angry acne craters.

The only one who talked to me had a body like this boy, but her chest was set up high, a stack of too many hard back books, swallowing her neck until it seemed she was nothing more than head and ribs and bird legs.

She never said it, but she loved me.

When the new kid moved to our town he didn’t know any better. He wore puka shells and polo-shirts and cologne that smelled like forests. He took me as a friend before the others could warn him, and then they quickly fell in line, too, acquiescing, because that’s how staying popular works.

A week into summer, she moved away, proof to me of God’s existence, his mercy and his grace.

CP

Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington with an eagle and three pesky beavers. His work has appeared in Dogzplot, Juked, Rumble, Storyglossia, Word Riot, and many other fine places.