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Best Poems Written by Killian Price

Below are the all-time best Killian Price poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Killian Price Poem

Mothers Day

Sitting on the lip of my bathtub,  
hunched over the edge,  
dripping and draped in terry cloth  
I cry out, "Oh God".  
I pray.  
More sincerely than I have since I lost my faith.  
I am certain someone is listening.  
I am certain of this because I need it to be true.  
  
In forty-nine minutes it will be mother's day.  
  
I cry out, "Oh God. I love her".  
And I do.  
More sincerely than I have since I left the pasture.  
It is overwhelming and horrifying.  
After all this, I still love her.  
  
After all this  
she loves me too.  
  
How can it be so?  
Now that I am a heretic  
Now that I am her failure.  
After the things we've said to each other.  
How can there be any love left?  
  
I've come back through  
my mother's pasture, prodigal daughter.  
Cresting the grassy hill I used to watch all day  
and long for, wondering if the Northwind felt freer  
than me.  
I am looking at her:  
stubborn and weeping  
  
and loving.  
  
She always loved me. I was hers  
before I was even my own.  
And it is painfully plain.  
All that transpired beaten trivial under the bludgeoning   
of loving  
and being loved.  
  
Mama, when you die I will weep.  
  
Because there is something deeper than betrayal  
And it is devotion.

Details | Killian Price Poem

Isomer

My love dissipated into the stagnant night.
The element of hope dissociated, evaporating, 
Nebulized by the lungs.
In great heaving gasps and salty residuum, 
It left me
Over the hours, the weeks, the years
you did not come.
Thickly the remainder condensed within me,
A molasses of ichor.
Of the godly blood of infants, 
still untouched, still golden.
Like honey crystalizing and darkening.
My love could find no purchase, no home, no return
With nowhere to go, it came to be grief.

My grief could not leave me 
Could not run through my blood 
The way that love did.
It trudged dutifully 
Sweeping across the lumen laboriously, painfully.
My grief could not leave me 
But it's stay was equally untenable 
For a living thing, unsustainable, insatiable.
So the body, in self preservation 
Pooled its surfeit humors, it's vinegar 
To dilute the congealed state.
It buzzed and burned as sluggish poison tempered
Melting under smooth hydroxyl ideals 
of fairness and fault.
Visions of transcendental creatures making right.
Anger put the power back in my bones
And clung like the rabid dog.

Love cannot leave you, not truly.
It changes shape, changes chemical composition
But it is always in living.

It can always be made pure again.
It doesn't need to hurt
You don't need to let it.

Details | Killian Price Poem

Grasshopper

You are alive,
squirming in my hand
like a dissatisfied infant
or a fish searching for water.
You are alive, we are alive.
There is something the same in us-
some spark undefinable,
except by contrast to its cold absence: death.
You have a mind and survival instincts
and stoic eyes like a sixth sense I cannot recognize.

The quiet of the dissection room
is heavy like the quiet of a tomb.
You would not understand my appology
and are too young yet to sing,
as I damn you to this silence eternally.
What is the gentlest way to end a life?
Oh certainly not this.
And which thought is more sickening
that God will not forgive this small act of killing
or that He deem it no sin in need of forgiving?

You were alive in my hands.
I am alive, you were alive.
You were in my hand.
Now everything should be different,
but life is so fragile and commonly broken
that everything keeps moving.
Like Cain, like Ivan, I keep moving
because life is for the living, for the killers,
for the things that bite 
wandering the earth until they too are bitten.