Where it Hurts
I run back through the dark.
It was the summer your hair lost its color,
The summer Paris killed everybody--
A summer by day, wheat without wind by night.
Love, it is heavy to be within one another,
Sacked up like traps. Our bodies
Go again the whole way, not much
More than ransoms & rigging; we wish
We were swarms so we couldn't
Be broken into such hunks.
You are something that could not be
More familiar to me.
You greet light as though it never hurt anybody.
Teach me to scare up an offering.
Teach me to rip through the vending machines,
Or at least this body bound barely to doorframes,
Both funded & bungled by grace.
You're not the one asking for help.
I'm not the one fainting to parts--
We both seek to be shaken awake.
A Political Poem
If you're looking for it, the sea's not here.
The day fills with bridges,
while night over-flowers, bores out a bay for itself.
Inside the wave white is a dark salt, so what.
I walk the seashore looking for trouble,
surly & counting the other bad-asses at the clambake.
The corpse found in the surf
is a manual on roses.
We look again to the tankers.
We look to the mothers with their shirts off.
We look to the sea, but it's filled
with milk & honey.
Kylan Rice has poetry published or forthcoming in The Examined Life, Thrush, decomP magazinE, Brusque Magazine and elsewhere. He is the editor for Likewise Folio. He lives in Utah.