You Saved Me

You saved me
that night, in line at Dumbo
though you’ll never understand
it.  You didn’t pull me
from the origami nightmare
of a burning car
or anything so dramatic
but you saved me all the same.

My heart, a calcified stone
I was going to live my life
a cynical, hardened bastard.
Not a plan, so much as a reaction.
You knew none of this
you were three.
I’d only known you for eighteen months
but you’d known me for half your life.

You wrapped your arms around my neck
and told me you loved me
and you saved me.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.