by Heather Haigh
Public Health
High in the apartment window, you peel
masking tape to spell I love you but from afar.
Most nights, I calm myself by counting bags of takeout left at the curb, dinners
tossed and congealed. What makes fever
but anticipation of touch, or speaking
in tongues to finish the other’s story?
What if we meet on the path at midnight
and I let you touch me and you let me
touch you? I don’t think I’ve ever written
the word consent, but nothing else fits.
Each gesture requires an abundance
of caution, a gentle hallucination
under inflamed stars, where we gather
in the presence of a billion breaths,
and heave as an insect cloud.
Kevin Roy is a professor in the School of Public Health at the University of Maryland in College Park. His work has been published in Kestrel, The Shore, The Broadkill Review, Slant, San Antonio Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, Summerset Review (nominated for Best of the Net), and Rogue Agent (nominated for The Pushcart Prize). His chapbook, The Mortician’s Son, was published in 2025 by Lines & Stars Press.
Heather Haigh is a sight-impaired spoonie and working-class artist, photographer and writer from Yorkshire. She has visual work published by Pithead Chapel, Sunlight Press, Midnight Fawn Review, Dulcet, Viridine and others. Find her at: https://x.com/HeatherBookNook
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