Here we are again, on a stage not our own.
The crowd is a thermometer of a 100 degrees.
A microphone is a snowball. We still finish
before we're drowned and they're left
on the island of attention. Instead, boredom
catches us in a lukewarm thaw, a flood
we can float in until the bottom drags us
under. This stage was always our Titanic.
It was the iceberg that crashed our song.
It was what sank us, clutching railings,
wearing life jackets, freezing whistles in our lips.
Where will we be rescued, even if only
our bodies are what's left to catch?
On top of a mountain where our bones
will have to be thrown over others' backs
to make those who'll run around after us.
Or maybe on a shore with a dove
and raven kissing, the desire to stay
loving the wish to flee. With us saying
next time it will be fire, such flames
as no one has seen or experienced before.
Author Discusses Poems