Katie Hulme
Katie Hulme lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio, USA. She is a wife, mother, and diagnostic medical physicist by day and writer by night. She only recently began to write again, and credits BTS for stimulating the neglected “right half” of her brain in her otherwise “left-brained” world. She is an Editorial Board member for @TheR3Journal and you can find her on Twitter @limeinacoconut7.
Dear, my friend?
Oh, I saw I childhood friend recently!
Last night, in fact— her hair was immaculate, as always.
(I’ve never colored my hair before, though the grey taunts me—
and you can tell I need to cut it,
because it remains knotted in a permanent bun).
I was surprised she was so friendly to me
(but then again, she was always kind).
What did we even talk about?
It’s odd it was her, to be honest.
An ocean severed many a tie
before a critical mass of memories was formed,
but she and I parted ways
long before a body of water could be blamed.
Our arranged friendship was brief,
and never deep enough for pain, jealousy, or anger to find a foothold.
Our feet got stuck in the mud once though—
by a creek (there is always a creek).
I smile at the thought of our dirty feet.
I am bemused that my subconscious
feels compelled to pretend
that that which never was, still is.
Why dream of her (and not the ones I grieve)?
Or is mud, perhaps, like blood?
Originally published in Dream Glow Winter 2021 Issue
duality
The first time I aimed a laser at a double-slit
was in a cramped closet of school barrack.
The memory is soaked with the scent of cigars
emanating from a ragged wool sweater.
It was series of clumsy measurements,
that somehow cascaded
into a trajectory called “profession”.
Did the duality of light induce the fall?
In a perfect world, I wonder what form it takes—
is it odd that I take comfort in the fact
that light, by nature, is a hypocrite like me?
But even light must pick a path when someone is watching.
And so the waveform collapses once more,
as time traces this path called me.
Originally published in Dream Glow Winter 2021 Issue
Song of the Asklepian
Snakes get a bad rap, you know?
Sure, some serpents whisper lies,
but others—
others cling to staffs in the desert;
hope curled around a pole.
Shall I tell you my story?
A smile lingers
as I recount the relief
of wanting once more.
Broken only by a cracked lip,
this expression wears my face.
What a relief to be possessed,
to shed these dead flakes.
I admire my Slytherin kin
who shed their skins so easily
while Joy has to rip mine off.
As She pulls,
I find myself wanting to savor the process of turning this moulting
cage inside-out.
I tighten my grip in rebellion—
let me enjoy these last few minutes of communion.
Possessed, then left empty again—
a scaly shell abandoned by its body
in a resolute knot.
At least I miss it this time.
If I could will my coils to relax,
I might abandon this post
the way you abandoned me
and slither in pursuit.
But no,
shells must simply wait.
Do this in remembrance of me—
as if I had a choice—
you left me wrapped around the assurance
that bodies do will come back.
Originally published in Through the darkness, I will love myself (Moonrise, 2021)
