person I.V. Katen, two poems

I.V. Katen is a young writer who goes to school in Atlanta, GA.

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baby foal or i fear the feeling of water on my bare skin

when it rains outside, it doesn’t stop. the flood rolls in easily, smoothly. taking out many. taking out all. the children– they say that when you look out over the horizon when the water rises above the lower doorsteps– they say there’s a stillborn horse, covered in placenta and oxygen-starved blood, just there. just there. “reincarnated from a bad, bad person, probably.” reincarnated to die in the womb. cowled over the rivers and the streams. cowled over the rocks. dead as a doornail but still, just there. something that will never gallop. something that will never breathe by itself. did the mother drown? was the father shot? were there any older siblings? younger? walking towards it proves unnecessary. it’s just there. strabismus eyes flickering from the sky to the water and then back again. it needs permission to drink. it need not drink. dead things need not drink.

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My fingers press imprints into tossed dirt.

There are flowers on that grave.

The correct pronunciation of “lilac” haunts me.

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