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2 poems by Kristin Ryan

Spilled Sriracha Blues by Becky Robison
May 31, 2018
June 2, 2018

Two Bedroom Two Bath
after Ada Limón

Say the past is
glued to my eyelids.

Say the kitchen
is a bomb:

all anxiety
and fear foods.

Say the used coffee
filters are wings.

Say the touch
is healing.

Say the scabs
are words.

Say the poems
keep me steady.

Say I come out on
the other side worse:

my body a stone
loving the riverbed.

Say we don’t feel it
in the air, in the blood.

Say we spend every day
on my healing:

understanding the hurt,
while blending herbs.

Say, Honey,
you’re my wife.

Say, I accept you.
Say he will burn. 
Tell me again how you
love me despite what he did.

Despite What Blooms

For NB, who showed me the way.

You won’t find peace
between each rib,
in the riddled throat.
You’ve known this.

It won’t be between
blade and skin, the
uprooting of wrists
despite what blooms.

Start with the pen.
Move your hand.
One letter.


Remember to breathe.
You are winning
each time your chest
rises and falls, its
shudder gasp,
the refusal to stop.

I was—

Find your way out.
Breathe through your nose. 
Steady now. 

Kristin Ryan is a poet working towards healing, and full sleeves of tattoos. She is a recipient of the Nancy D Hargrove Editor’s Prize in Poetry, and was a Write Bloody Finalist. Her poems have been featured in Glass, Jabberwock Review, and Spider Mirror among others. She holds an MFA from Ashland University and works in the mental health field. She tweets @kristinwrites