Tag Archives: Catie Wiley

cough drop

By Catie Wiley

i hold fear under my tongue like a lozenge.
that sharp cherry taste lingers, tingles
all menthol and memory.

it sweats. coating my throat
and coloring my pharynx 
with permanent marker.

every inhale reminds me,
every exhale reminds me,
of something
i don’t want to remember.


Catie Wiley is a lesbian writer from Maryland. She’s a contributing editor for Story Magazine and a poetry reader for the winnow magazine. Her work appears in Stone of Madness Press, Wrongdoing Magazine, and warning lines magazine, among others. Find her on Twitter or at catiewiley.wordpress.com.

applesauce

By Catie Wiley

when you say you love me, 
my ears are full 
of applesauce. 
i hear the sounds but 
never 
the meaning behind them.

every day, i try 
to shake the applesauce 
out.
i try and i try and i try, 
but it’s no use. 
i can’t use a q-tip. 
no spoons allowed. 
a fork would never work, 
too much risk, 
and i’ve never wanted an ear piercing 
anyway.

you say you love me and i want to ask you 
to write it down. in pen, not pencil. 
hell, a sharpie would be better. 
write it down so I know 
i’m not imagining it. 
write it down so 
i can hold it in my hands.
write it down. 
the muffle will linger.


Catie Wiley is a lesbian writer from Maryland. She’s a contributing editor for Story Magazine and a poetry reader for the winnow magazine. Her work appears in Stone of Madness Press, Wrongdoing Magazine, and warning lines magazine, among others. Find her on Twitter or at catiewiley.wordpress.com.