I read yet another goddamn poem by Tess Kincaid.
He stands magnificent
in suit coat and blanket―
hard as flint, mysterious as onyx―
glowing with solar eclipse.
He tells of crossing the father of rivers,
of the man in the great white house―
his sad eyes, the way he sucked a pipe,
how he spoke peace like a chief.
He pulls a feather from his headband.
Mixes warpaint. Hums something distant.
Ochre stings my face. I want to dance.
When I open my eyes, he is gone. I see nothing
in the mirror. Only the clear, ancient power
to cut a hole in the day.
Hole in the Day by Tess Kincaid poets pen | |
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| People & Blogs | Upload TimePublished on 19 Jun 2016 |
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