BY CARL BOON
Copyright is held by the author.
After raki and surmising
terror, new love’s
possibilities of skin,
I think of what the poem
does, what it’s thinking
while I’m
walking past
the Black Sea Bakery
in the rain,
while I’m
waiting for news.
39 dead, a kiss
that never grew to more.
She offers me
a hand, an outrage,
coffee in a warm place,
but the poem—
a real, breathing thing—
demands to be elsewhere,
a desperate drunk
eyeing your wine,
a fanatic
without a gun.
It seethes; it probably
reads the paper, too,
and watches me
embrace my rituals
with her who bleeds.
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