human / way
In
this world, it is so odd
to
be young and to be still
‘cause
we are told freedom is wild,
and
not to keep our nomadic minds
in something perishable, like a dream.
in something perishable, like a dream.
And
there aren’t many spaces
for
the odd, if you think about it.
Even
in parks and museums
it
is the old who sit very still
while
the young, whose blooming
rages
against time, march on
march
on, march to beat
quicksand
ready
to devour their flesh full of spice
and spit out the flavorless bone.
Any stopping is death,
and spit out the flavorless bone.
Any stopping is death,
so
the odd know death.
In
this world, it is so odd
to
be young and to know death.
To
know the intolerable secret
(it is just a gentle window),
and then distrusting Gentle,
and then facing the wall.
To
be young is to feel so much.
But
lately, that too is odd.
And
I’ve been thinking, still
and
hidden in the silent grass,
how
odd it is to be a flower and to sag;
for
that really doesn’t seem to square.
And
yet today I feel fine
being
so odd.
Alexandra Kulik
My work has appeared in K'in, Maudlin
House, Punch Drunk Press, Bayou Magazine, Nthanda Review, and Black Fox
Literary Magazine, among others.
Tags:
Poetry