It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else
Something you may... You may never find again.
My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.
We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun
There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights
I am not a single name. Not a single wound.
Grey chips of rough cement Rust rubble all around,
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
So go in peace, be free, be kind.
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
I remember the wallowing hole inside of my chest, / hollow and bleeding
Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
And in spite of knowing this/ In spite of the absurdity of it all/ You let yourself fall
Veering off from stories for a bit, Fahim Anzoom Rumman’s “The Secret” was a breath of fresh air. The piece seemed to be a cross between a poem and the kind of fable your grandparents would tell you as a kid to get you to fall asleep.
Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.
that single spot, shunyo, a hole that is filled to its circumference, I drive and the sun is bigger than I’ve ever seen and orange, look directly into it or, i had to write a poem to go along with the first
While I fear whom you’ll become once you hear me, once you leave me.
