Christopher Soden
June 2021
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Christopher Stephen Soden received his MFA in Poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts in January of 2005. He teaches craft, theory, genre and literature. He writes poetry, plays, literary, film, and theatre critique for and EdgeDallas. Christopher’s poetry collection, Closer was released by Rebel Satori Press on June 14th, 2011. He received a Full Fellowship to Lambda Literary's Retreat for Emerging LGBT Voices in August 2010. His performance piece: Queer Anarchy received The Dallas Voice's Award for Best Stage Performance. Water and A Christmas Wish were staged at Bishop Arts and Radio Flyer and Every Day is Christmas. In Heaven. at Nouveau 47. Other honors include: Distinguished Poets of Dallas, Poetry Society of America's Poetry in Motion Series, Founding Member, President and President Emeritus of The Dallas Poets Community. 



i cannot stop thinking

about you lost as usual

in a tango of growls

and bites and swallowing

whatever spills from our

sketchy history grief

and sweet gobbledygook

if only i could come

up from behind and kiss

you deep and ponderous

as an undiscovered

galaxy then slip my arm

under your chin if only

our swinging cocks

could jangle merrily

as spontaneous opera

gilbert and sullivan

erupting from daffy

parade of scalding bourbon

shots and chili sprackling

with stinging tomatillo

and red onion all i can

feel like prometheus

is your teeth sunk

in my guts why are you

here what are you asking

i should snap your neck

i should gulp your gooey

spit we should fuck

in a broken lifeboat

till we are sealed

in the hush of endless

ocean sleep if only

the blue rapacious soul

of winter would leave

us desolate blokes alone

dwell in grace


the papa on television

doesn’t get drunk

at home but still finds

ways to disappoint

the boy or his mother

she gets between them

and the ugly purple eye

of love i could never tell

when my dad

was sloshed or saw

when he met my sister

with a belt after a date

barely brave enough

to kiss her long

into the changing

hours i listen

to the naked ache of pop

(she brought home

on 45s every week) post

fragments of resignation

on social media:  “...don’t let on,

don’t say she’s broke

my heart...” and i will stop

now because none of this

matters it doesnt help

to wish we had smothered him

or sent him tumbling

down the 14 stairs

dividing our bedrooms

from the rest of the house

i talk to the television

i say thank you papa

or im sorry dad or thats

ok son and choke

all to pieces