Poem for the coward. {poetry}

Photo: weheartit.com.

Photo: weheartit.com.

By Jason Kirin. 

In Washington D.C
It is one year into the past
a potted set of
lilies bloom stark
shading the over
side of a city
Tossing still dried wasabi
peas at pigeons
in Dupont Circle –
I know your hands
over these shoulders,
I know your hips
like oars in a hurricane,
I know the stench of
wet Pall Mall
smoke climbing your
thighs, Joni Mitchell
in the hallways
singing Christmas
songs, my picture
on your nightstand.
I know your neighbors
flowers when I smell
them. Their chrysanthemums
make geranium
tea for a lunch in the
garden. Forget me
nots plea, “For me, let
me not forget thee.”
They can hear the
crackle of dried
leaves in our toes.
Trees barking
like ageless snakes
our cigarette
lighters click
and light
are not in love
the way I am.
Like Blacksmiths forging
steel from calla lilies;
Alchemists manifesting
memories from the sounds
of you dog’s paws scittering
or Tom Waits
sung in tune to
the slapping
of your ass.
When I sit at the
National Mall I
think of my tongue
slipping, dancing
to fears lullaby,
years into the future
wishing for a river
that I can skate away on.



jason kirinJason Kirin, a Frankenstein of dead poets who speaks from both mouth and hands, sometimes simultaneously. Jason has been a freelance interpreter and deaf educator for most of his professional life. When he is not turning one language into another, turning poems to hands; to voices; to metaphors, or performing somewhere in Pittsburgh,  he offers private juggling lessons and lateral thinking classes from the comfort of his in-home office…


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