Katie Hibner's poetry has been published by  Bone Bouquet, inter|rupture, Up the
Staircase Quarterly
, Vinyl,  and  Yalobusha Review. She has read for Bennington Review,
Salamander, and Sixth Finch. Katie dedicates all her poetry to the memory of her
mother and best friend, Laurie.

Boy Midases (An Indictment)

Our boy kings alchemized themselves.
We try to revive them in our sanctum
via lanceted rollercoaster.

Each of its cars sloshes with adaptable boy fluid.
Once the solution has been roughed up enough,
we bottle it,

pad it with heaps of fauna and sourdough,
drape the mound
with carbuncular wreaths.

We believe our sanctum is zipped in a draconian pellicle
nearly bursting with negative capability;
we believe in egalitarian rosacea

and a natural selection of air quotes.
We believe in stringing together arcade tokens
for our skull caps;

we don them as we pour the bottles
over the figurines of our sons,
top them off with salt flares and soda hoods.

When they reawaken, we cram them
with bleached finger foods, chitin wafers.
We hope to preserve their bliss,

to steer them away from dashboards
of intersectionality.
We hope to rehabilitate them
not only as kings, but as gods.

Designer Gestation

To keep up with designer babies, they offer designer gestation:
who needs a placenta when you can have a chrysalis?

The horned founders grow your pupa in neighborhoods zoned yeasty,
crash-test them through meritocracy wallops, lockout craters.
They simmer them over chicanery votives,
congealing their rugose brainpans, their soft serve tongues.

For a nod to old school labor,
you request that the founders
transplant your darling capsule
into your womb for hatching.

You are soon too rapt
by your son's tinctured drainage,
his teething on coin rolls,
his photogenic chest-thumping,

to question the founders
about the shriveled tail
haunting his afterimage.

Future Celebrity Cribs

In the future, the hottest celebrity cribs are panic rooms.
You devour the reports of their whipped metronomes,
their guestbooks fluorided for syndication.

You hunger for their warden rotaries,
their comfort objects sliced only into polygons
that are easily-digested

and found in nature.
To replicate their sensible glamour,
you uproot your grove of nuance mesh.

This new dugout of chaste nomenclature
blunts you until you can't admit it:
the celebrities' waistbands
are sticky
with parasites.

The Suburbs

Our suburbs are populated by butter cookies, AKA
those who plug their proboscises into the burgeoning sectors,
who study up to become

carpetbaggers of topspin,
stock footage breeders,
bandwidth fablers.

They embellish their dens with rosy
prescription garlands,
hollows properly hopscotched.

They hire 24-hour hoodie-scouts,
permit spoon-billed operatives
to comb through their Siberian husky-gluts, their potted trail mixes;

the agents compensate their domestic informants
with grapy collars,
promises to spare their leftovers from hellfire.

Every Saturday night, at the end of the cul-de-sac,
the biscuit men solemnly christen
an ant farm.

They kumbaya
around drummed-up
bunny pills.

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