Kyla Pasha | Poetry

If you were not looking, I would not
be here. Caught in the cross
fire of defiance and desperation, I
am poet, sorry I am poet, speaking
my own demons like they’re yours,
my own anger like it scores an
orange alert on the universal
terror scale. You should be worried,
I want to say, but words
open and close at the behest of
clicking fingers and I
am small. My friend, I am small.

If you were not looking, I would
almost have nothing to say.

Defiance and desperation, fuck you
but please listen – this pain, bear
witness, this is flesh that’s bruised, this
is blood this is the news of my life, Listen.

I am not your bastion, I am not
court jester, I am not a man
with teachings, I am not
an open wound. You are not
my therapy. Sorry but I am
a poet and these are my words
and you have words and you have bruises
and this is a fire between us now.

Sit. See us
warming our hands.

I slept at the foot of the bed
every night for forty years and I thought
this would end it – rapture
would lift us, move us and
we’d entwine. We entwined
but rapture bled us dry and now
the dogs bay; and we
are sanguine. What light
falls on us feeds us up
to the cameras, to the barrels
of guns glinting, to our
angels, better and worse;
and love is nearly insufficient cover
on darker nights. We entwine.
You turn over and breathe
evenly. I write poems.
I pray for stories. I listen.
5:55 on a Monday morning
and every night for forty
years, I listen for the covers
pulling back. Where my unhatched
children, too, breathe evenly.
I am sanguine.

~~~~