Heads

Someone who is not your relative
Stands by the hand of a clock
Reliving the thing—
Best to know it
Know suffering
Know there’s no word
Coming or discoverable
Among papers—
Remember the coarse child
Who shouted
When the valley filled
With knives
Know it
Laundry hanging
Outside
Blue Queens
Subway windows
Strangers beside you
Advertisements flare
A snapshot
Of horror
In each bowed head

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto