April 17, 2016From Nigeria to New Zealand
So men with Kalashnikovs
red eyes and hand-rolled
cigarettes strap bombs under
the veils of girls as young as eight,
send them into the center of town.
Detonate. But those girls, their
girl faces, girl knees, and girl
dreams wasted are not mine
to plug into a poem about disgust
here on the coast of California
where I lick and lick and lick
the paws of my poet sadness.
Instead, consider the octopus
who escaped the ugly nubs
of human noses pressed to his tank
and the pits of their pink mouths
against his glass. He’s mine.
Under ink cloak of night, lid off,
slime coat pulled close over all
eight flowing shoulders, down
the drain he split. Fuck
this noise, he said, to canned
clams and human cruelties
before suckering out to sea.
from Poets Respond