kris t. kahn
THIS IS A POEM
this is a poem about
the Picasso & the shame
& the concrete confines of
a bunker. this is a poem
written twenty stories below a city
in the throes of September,
before the clematis has bloomed,
before the paint has dried,
before the wounds have fully closed.
this is a poem about breath &
dirt, about what is unspoken
& what is heard.
in this poem we know all the answers,
the connotations & denotations,
this is a poem about Right Now.
this poem is both
the obelisk & the sky it always bothers,
the grey buildings rising phallic
against an unwavering horizon.
this poem is wearing all white &
is lighting a candle with shaky hands. it is
hiding within the bravest of all hymns.
this poem is a metaphor & it is on Fire.
this is a poem about psychology
& the inequities we suffer
each time we turn on the tv.
this is a poem about the sweep of hand
over torso as the sun deftly rises.
this is a poem about penetration,
into cells blackened by need
& telling them
shh! this is a poem about
screaming a lover's name
into a glass of cheap gin &
being able to decipher
smell & the feel
of him smashing sweetly in
mouths, hips --
this poem has two hands &
ten fingers & is
running them across the
bodies & the rubble,
making one last attempt
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