Poetry

Wax

And so she had to
Burn his paintings,
All the way down to the wick
All the way down to their Bed-Stuy bones

Poem by Kyle Kaplan - kkaplan@smith.edu Doodle By Luigi Scarcella

Doodle © Luigi Scarcella

I am the pith of scar

A pearl that thickens like

The meat of an Airtimes pear

 

My words are only little finger,

Only thinner

Only papa’s ring.

 

I let boys suck my lemon mouth,

The landscape of my tooth and tongue

The new frontier, they build their names in my breath.

So I may say I, “his hair, his eyes” (when I really like something.)

 

I will forget him.

 

The yellow couch has turned black

From inhaling the exhaust fumes of my father’s clothes,

He lives in epitaph,

“Call me genius. Say you love me.

Remember who I was.”

 

His first wife went cold on a Thursday.

She froze to death in the shadow of his back.

The second one, the one I chipped from,

Told me she was tired of his jaw and his misanthropic shuckel.

 

And so she had to

Burn his paintings,

All the way down to the wick

All the way down to their Bed-Stuy bones

In the room he shared with

His sisters.

 

I won’t forget him.

 

My papa is the last of his language.

He speaks dirty needle—Hiroshima.

When children metastasized in their Brown stones.

I asked the brass bull why it used an old heart like a cue cup.

 

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t

Forget him.

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