| Casualties
This is a
smart poem
as certain
bombs are
smart. This
poem knows
where to land.
This poem will
not mutilate
the hands of
children, blow
arms from their
sockets.
This poem is
Deliberate.
Forget it.
Trajectory
of national
apologies,
please, baby, please, stay
on target. But I
can’t promise
when I kiss you
my eyes won’t
bulge, a survivor
sucking the air,
mess of ash, ass-
backwards, alive.
This poem will kill
the right people. |
Pantoum for the Hovering Heart
“Dread,” she said, “is delicate.”
Awkward artistry turns the hand
to musk a bed now maculate;
the heart takes long to land.
Awkward artistry turns the hand.
Eyes, shy, ask another to lie
whose heart takes long to land
in the silk of shaded sighs.
Eyes, shy, ask another to lie
shirtless, heaven-faced, anxious.
In the silk of shaded sighs,
the ties that bind are curious.
Shirtless, heaven-faced, anxious
musk in a bed now maculate.
“The ties that bind are curious.
And dread,” she said, “is delicate.” |
