Two Poems|Kenneth Pobo



Yesterday Walt Whitman and I

visited the Arboretum,

cold and snow sloppy,

but he’s dead and feels fine.

I’m alive and good conversation

warms me up.  Walt asked

about my America–was it a land

of promise?  We can be sure

of some promises–someone will die

of gunfire.  Everyday.

We can be sure that vicious

leaders will create vicious laws,

bellies full of dead queers

and people of color.


We stood on a bridge

over a creek—he disappeared

back into death.


I went home, read his book,

and he returned, in our living room,

a cloud beside a red vase.




Painting by Goya, 1814


I feel myself melting–

arms slide off,

ears drip down

my vanishing chest.

I cover what’s left

in a stranger’s  prayers

to a God made of

burning iron.

I become a river–

I flow away,

no destination, only

the pulsing light of

his darkness.


Photo by Evan Krause on Unsplash


Kenneth Pobo has a new book out from Assure Press called Uneven Steven.

His work has appeared in: Nimrod, Hawaii Review, Mudfish, The Queer South Anthology, Atlanta Review, and elsewhere.

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