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- Adam Clay, Ada Límon, Michael Robins.
- Featured Poet: Caki Wilkinson?
- Circles where the head should be : poems / by Caki Wilkinson - Details - Trove.
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They asked the child what men loved you. Because there was more than one. Because stared at substitutes for love.
Now your son is motherless. Stone Mary holds a body on her lap. Hard grief. Instead of Him you felt for Mary, left alone. There was a threshold before the statue, at her lap, but it was cement, a floor, and no one felt in the way to kneel on it. No, we never knew, or suspected abuse , your sister said. Because girls read it right. The instruction not to speak.
Folded knees, lowered head. Flock raised to be silent. I think he was shy about reciting poetry at home. He was one of my kindest students and I loved that image of him in the field. Then the poem became about something else.
Emily Skaja: Brute feat. Caki Wilkinson & Karyna McGlynn
In many ways, my experiences are grounded like lemonade stands, wherein I recognize that often what is sold is sweet and that our motifs and perceptions are really a fragile kind of commerce. Divine Interval The world keeled over by the weight of its real-tempered itness. Our almost-correspondence like a dog craving oranges. Time and again, some celestial tug at the wisps, but not even close. Blood- Song, curled like an ear. Mine, like so much straw glistening at the doors of heaven.
Red soundtrack To the mezzanine of your afterglow. All the doorknobs have grown Weary of hearing me. It was such a startling thing to laugh. The wire sheds its barbs, softens to silk thread.
The snipers run out of bullets. The desert, as it always has, of its own volition, blooms. The snipers are distracted, sexting their girlfriends. The snipers wonder if they will ever see the end of us. The fence does not hold. The snipers take a lunch break. The bullets melt in their chambers.
The news finally breaks the stillness around us. The snipers do not shoot at the medics evacuating the wounded. The snipers make eye contact with one of us and see. There are enough saline bags at the hospital. The snipers shoot and miss and miss and miss.
We outrun the snipers. You can learn more about her poems, essays, and travels at www. They were, again, met with abject violence. Any poem I write is forged inside of this reality, that my people, those from whom I am separated simply by the strange privilege of legal documents, risk death every day for claiming their own names, for insisting on what most of us will never have to question.
Child, I count ten rivulets shining down the bedroom wall. The leaves slosh and thrash against the glass.
Caki Wilkinson | Miami Book Fair
Some days I think, What have I gotten us into? This tearstained wall, this constant dripping into buckets, the mold a wild black shadow. Child, I promise you the rain will stop. It has to stop. Laura Read: One of the things I admire in your work is your ability to take an ordinary moment from the experience of parenting children within a contemporary middle-class American life and reach past that moment to contextualize it in the suffering of the larger world. So there is the small world of the mother and the child reading the book and the darkness outside that the mother knows and that the child will know.
I guess this is very much on my mind this morning as I read the news of families being separated at the border. It seems wrong to get ready for my day like any other day. Many of your poems ask how we can or should live with the knowledge of so much suffering in our world. Can you talk about this move you make in your poems?