we twist quick for the weekend and dance until the days begin to taste like aloe and honey, flipping our bodies idle as if we’re sunbathing. we swallow the pulp of each afternoon and forget who started the fight about which of us steals more air from a room. we forget you burned your thumb on the underbelly of the stove. we forget I cried and kissed it. we forget I said before bed I am afraid I am a narcissist, but meant I am afraid there is no end to emptiness. we forget you said narcissists aren’t worried about being narcissists and caressed my cheek with your hand. we forget I said but they say there’s no cure, but meant if I asked, would you lie awake with me until I feel rid of it? we forget you said let’s talk about this tomorrow and turned the smooth quiet of your back to me.
Raised in Atlanta and Columbus, Georgia, Kianna Greene is a poet and writer living in Orlando, Florida, where she teaches creative writing at the University of Central Florida. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Salt Hill, Rust & Moth, Bellingham Review, The Citron Review, The Penn Review, The Indianapolis Review, Maudlin House, and other journals. She was the winner of Ashland Poetry Press’s 2026 Poetry Broadside Contest and a finalist for Frontier Poetry’s 2025 Misfit Poem Prize. She is an alumna of the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop and the Key West Writers’ Workshop. Currently, Kianna serves as an Associate Poetry Editor for The Florida Review and Director of The Cypress Dome, the University of Central Florida’s undergraduate literary journal. More about her can be found at kiannagreene.com.