Almost all the poems written are scoundrels by MK Kuol
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none of your names is an aptonym:
a reflection of your character.
yesterday, i ripped you
from the brittle ribs of a drunk god
with my deaf eyes & sang about it.
your story is not unique:
all of us will part someday
with everything we’re now part of.
a dumb grief sits on my mother’s tongue.
she dips her boneless fingers into her spine
to scour in her sour soul the smooch of death.
my father doesn’t believe heaven is a haven.
the thesaurus is yet to convince him
how a servant [fanning an egotistic god
with hollow hosannas]
isn’t synonymous with a slave
[tending with tender hands
an entitled anna’s oats]
today, in an infant poem―daubed
on a dead metaphor’s breath―
a poet autographed: almost all the poems written
are scoundrels born when fraught hearts
make out with empty stomachs.
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