Details |
Jordan Ankara Poem
5 in the morning, Why
do you keep at it? Howl-
ing and wail-ing, the wall
cries out in fear as
you press your weight
into it.
Heavy, heaved breaths
as it pulls inwards,
afraid for its cracked fate.
I sit and stare, a loaded
gun
inside the room.
Should I? Why
do I bother.
My door is kicked in
and he stood there,
a picture of red, red
vengeance. El Diablo--
is this a dream? He
is chest-bare,
nothing to hide
his eyes’ hate. I
hear his heart wind up--
inside, Memory tastes his pulse.
The wall creaks and is
curious, rises pridefully
and cowers all at once.
There are no words
to baptize hatred,
not the child I saw
beneath his skin.
It crawled, like a worm,
slithered out his heart
and up up up
into me, the croaking wall
a silent witness
to all. I sit
and stare and sin(g)
a thousand stars' choir of rage.
Copyright © Jordan Ankara | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Jordan Ankara Poem
On the Rug with Death,
two beers in hand
(though no one here drinks)
we laugh, his lifespan
a joke still fizzed. My breath
ignites wars, lulls drivers
to sleep and builds bridges
for his guests. What idle past-
-times you worship, he pitches,
eye wand’ring to traverse
the awkward silence as I
know what comes next. My
gauge on Man’s power dwindles.
Perhaps, he drawls, you might taste
something ever so slightly
more enlight’ning. His heavy
accent traces over the words, like
sugar on a sticky thumb post-binge.
Tongue in cheek, his fingers surpass
my laugh in wishing to be broken.
Copyright © Jordan Ankara | Year Posted 2024
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