No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I imagine I am laid out On a table. Like a banquet. Very pretty. Wearing a flowing dress. Spread beneath my inert body Waves of gauzy, ref filmy cloth tease pale skin...
release me from page & ink. from story.
from the value of fragility found in silence
& the blush of petals against sky. & within
the release i find it. the brilliant. the just. me.
When I change the sheets
in the bed where you slept
I see you still there.
In this country, a father walks out & never returns. Truth! & a mother is a shadow. In the night, she covers the home
with her body. Her fingers are nimble for the tears she must hide.
Poets never look like their poems.
This one ends with you wearing a tunic
as blue as a cornflower clasped
by a golden brooch, and your fearless glare,
and the sword, the bloody sword.
I want to slyly install my sadness
Into your brain, like malware. Load it
And explode it.