Kyla Pasha | Poetry

There’s death in an A-frame,
I’ve decided.
Not just that it’s a roof
with no feet on, which is
creepy by itself, but also because
all my friends want to live
in an A-frame
in the wilderness and I do so
love the city, with its buildings
and height, its sense of belonging to
so much manufactured insanity that really,
nature wouldn’t be bothered to bust it down more than
once in a century and I could live through that -
or die tragically, but at least novel-like, modern,
concise. Trees
are homes for dryads and wood nymphs
and people who smoke pot and
speak to God through protoplasm
and me, I’m all red blood cells and concrete walls,
rain in rivulets, flooded streets, I’m all about nature
taking over man
once
in a frequent while
and then letting go because
being neither dryad nor farmer,
neither recluse nor torn asunder with love,
I am in love with the sound of thunder
ravishing the highway and
with A-frames, you have to
paint the elbows, mark the wiring, build a ceptic tank,
I mean, what gives?

There’s also death in short cities
and they’ve known about suburbs
for years now. I just wanted to warn
the uninitiated that if you find
a house like a hat with no head under it
or a head with no body
or the body buried, if you find a triangle
inviting you in, don’t go. Think ginger-bread house.
Think wanderer-stew. Think quaint couples
and fireplaces, hot meals and early to bed.
That sort of thing. There’s really no call.