Kyla Pasha | Poetry

It’s about medusa trying to kill herself.
A woman ran up behind me today –
I saw her in the window of the coffee shop
and she was gorgeous – red
under a white jacket, short, firm
on her feet, happy.
I followed her inside, watched her order, watched her bounce
as she spoke American latitudes
to the barista (who was another beautiful woman).
And, you know, I’m firm on my feet,
short, wear red, can repeat those American
things that build bridges, I look good.

And I fall for moving pictures
of women wearing red and drinking coffee,
for their sway, for my eyes
that will follow them – for sharp
lines in mercury and shadow –
and now I polish my surfaces
so you will see
me as bright and you as –

this song?
Don’t break.
Your ropes
and your heart that looks
dusty sometimes, like you wear it
on the outside, pull me in.

You probably think this song is about you
but it’s about medusa, drunk and in love,
dying to see herself
whole.

There’s a light on this looking glass.
I can see the cracks in it
like mortar, like when limbs fold.