My Idea of Hell
by Kat Lively
Crawling along the interstate
behind a geriatric Ford
or
lodged in a checkout line
while the lady in front peels away
her dollar bills
one
by
one.
Untitled IV
by Kat Lively
Your holocaust mood
tastes bitter when swallowed,
like the vocals of a Patsy Cline vinyl
mourning,
haunting,
reverberating in my soul
long after the needle
has dulled.