My Pikachu Lover

Finalist in the Summer 2026 Editor’s Prize Contest

“-” - Amanda Yskamp

I called him Dogachu because I could not pronounce the Japanese due to a corruption
of the source code
which he attributed to me being AI-generated spin-off, saying, “There are 2500
more like you within a five-mile radius.”  As if standing at the blast center.  He knew
that because he slept
with them all.  His head tilted to one side, labrador eyes, ears like welcome mats, his
left foot scratching behind. Arguing over the first edition of a manga I loved, he told me he
admired my loyalty.  Found it '“endearing.”  Tacky but endearing.  Hoped I would
make it onto a ship when
the earth is abandoned.  If not, could he go ahead and eat my taco bowl from
QDOBA? 
But my roots are here amongst the fireflies, the open-hearted insects bearing their
burdens through the darkness of the sweaty summer savannah waiting
for him to return from the woods where the deer dance with shadow puppets,
anonymous Pokémon on a pine-scented backdrop under the big moon.  Owls
shrieking on the back of my neck, filaments prickling little antlers before the storm.
He returns shoeless.  Later, I find one dangling on the fence but not the other.
Lightning
struck me there, a sheet rocker’s son following his father across fresh concrete.  In the
bathtub I scrub the sweat and cow pasture off him before bed.
Toweling his yellow fur in the soft glow of the bath, while he catches up with an
entire season he left on delivered.
His red tongue lolling deliciously at the thought of every downed garbage can.
A single expectation of mine could have derailed this from the start.  In his café, the
waiters brought whatever they wanted and you ate it.  There were
no menus.  We met
on the apps, actually, but in this version it was the basement of a bookstore in
Goldenrod City.  At the door, marooned in a chair, a disabled Korean
woman.  Not caring about my English.  My tongue a left-handed catcher’s mitt.  She
only wanted to talk.  “Listen,” she said,
“We are all beautiful monsters.”
In the hot press of the mildew below, we surprised each other.  Stepping out of very
different dust jackets without looking back, away from the house
of the friendship checker, the hamburgers, the notice of upcoming battles.  Pikachu.
Mimikyu.  My heart a bookmark he used to find his place.  Later, we will stop
to eat outside
from a bag of dried squid he bought to donate or else feed to the birds.  Washing the
whole thing down the drain with the rankings, the closing ceremony
at the stadium.  He is gone now, and all that is left are plastic paving stones in a fake
park and fireflies ripped like snowflakes from an imaginary sky.

About the Author

The poetry of Eric Wittkopf (he/him) may be found in places like The Bangalore Review, new words {press}, and La Piccioletta Barca. He is a past Pushcart nominee and a winner of innumerable queer prizes created and awarded by himself.

About the Artist

Writer and collage artist, Amanda Yskamp’s work has been published in such magazines as Threepenny Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Georgia Review, Boxcar Review, Rattapallax, and Caketrain. She is a poetry editor and frequent cover artist for WordRunner E-Chapbooks. She lives on the 10-year flood plain of the Russian River, teaching writing from her online classroom.