Volume Four, Issue 3

Lucas Chib

I was a poet searching for a home in a poem

the day I woke
up under the staircase
in my childhood home

in front of a step bookshelf
with endless volumes
of the book of my life

I opened all the volumes
of the book, one by one,
the pages were all empty

I had despaired of chasing beauty
I couldn't reach
within depths of myself

emptiness peddled
spirit lifters
at every corner

why stew in self-loathing
then dress it up with
pretenses of profundity

you must create me
in your own image
and free me, said the poem...

Today is a palimpsest

ghosts of poets being taken
for evening strolls
mumble faint prayers
to silent gods of yore...

the four protruding sides at the top
of the massive stone sculpture
in the middle of the plaza
are what people were hanged from

everyone else is indoors
waiting to come out later
in the evening when
the heat has calmed...

tomorrow looks at photos
we’ve taken, and they’re
be populated with crowds
cheering the hanging of heretics...

The nth Amendment

synonyms exhausted by subtlety
ditched the polite word shuffle
ashes of best intentions flamed out
smoking tear-gas canisters aimed
at heads of pepper-sprayed words
leaped out of leather-bound constitutions...
monuments came down, the grounds on which
they were raised stay anchored in place...

Lucas Chib: "My poetry has recently appeared in Brittle Paper, Glasgow Review of Books, FronteraLit (Madrid).

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