Caleb Hipple
1. A Hippie Fucks My Mom, 2000
“Tune in, Turn on and Drop out” (his favorite quote on Facebook)
Robbie, my absent creator, holds a breath—
he imagines instead her lover’s puffed chest, quakes
knowingly, blows on plump dandelions, unsheathes
in her stretching garden. Hidden, a snake
slides from basement cinder blocks, two states away.
Terry pins, presses, severs its squirming neck.
He doesn’t fear its bite, tongue, or patternless sway,
as four kids upstairs ask what’s nextnextnex—
thinks I’m child number five, made weeks prior.
Back in Ayden, NC, a spill of cum won’t unslick
the floor. Beneath tiles and grout, there’s fire
ivying towards Pennsylvania. Sweat drips
down truth; I can’t (but could?) be of the love she spurned,
yet my flowering roots ask when we’ll return.
2. I Imagine Robbie and His Dad
Shutout
You didn’t just win; you championed two states!
Robert Sr. smells pine-tar under a hellish
sun, on his brow and shaking hands. Relish
soaks through a bun, beneath my nails. (I am late
by twenty-one years… or early. No, I arrive
at the last inning.) I can’t find your head
amidst the jerseys, flying spit; the sky is red
as thread from a ball. It wraps your career in five
years of coaching, guiding our Robbie to bat
at unseen meteors. He trips. And he hurts.
In a Friday’s dusk, his pants rip; the tears bleed
into a rusty slick. His dad hides in his hat,
holds back tears; it is quiet. He doesn’t know why
fatherless sons scream play ball, hoping the kid cries.
3. After Robbie Posts About Me Without Permission
I scan my face like it’s your message,
marked by hands I’ve never felt. So unfamiliar
in a mirror, those pearlescent vestiges
wait for me like a father: brow greased in anger,
the nose, beard hiding moles. Punnet squares
surround my patchworked childhood, cover questions
and cover-up answers. I can’t even heave in air—
or undig—I am the hole, the dirt, lessened
but greater with each clenched scoop. Now nothing’s left
for me to squeeze; this mud was bound to dry.
We talked only once. This paydirt lead to your theft,
your public claim, of my impossibly blue eyes…
I too can’t keep secrets, so should’ve known sooner
to give you my nickname for you are now “The Ruiner.”
The Tributary 