The Poetry Project

S*an D. Henry-Smith

last Thursday

over drinks at the bar above the theatre at the end of all that was familiar yesterday, she questions the fallings of little kings, nudging the black leather piece into its lanky isosceles slot, safe w/ its own for now. communal forms don’t negate the need for, nor the sacredness of Secrecy. a long game, for real. you get out what you put in & the rest is chance, so legend has it.

what is left? what has not yet been done? we make our earthly return w/ cosmic determination, feudal resistance. we operate under honest direction, an earnest scarcity: live the short life w/ your hearth on your sleeve, ear to the ground. further still, she anticipated the chaos! apparently they all did, some even knew as children. I break into hive & tremor, as my spine remembers the frigid Pacific & how no one believed me.

of course it is devastating, & I won’t hold back in telling you how: when it’s raining out, & again power begets power. the state is unabashedly delighted in its carnage. yes, the year spent unable to beg, plead. eye of ice, heart of stone. yes, you ought to take it personally—growing pains well into old age.

her frustration becomes me, I carry it w/ me even now. why are we back here? we ponder together daringly, letting resentment sharpen around us as the porcupine teaches: my body is my defense in the face of imminent enclosure, its talents remain unburied.

sonorous in bitter utterances, performative dillydally: perhaps we’re back to take a bow, detail the determining factors. this weather in which blood bursts from my fingers, sludges in my toes. cruel moon hangs high.

& the dice again rolls.

Issue 16