Andrew Kozma‘s poems have appeared in Blackbird, Redactions, Subtropics, and Best American Poetry 2015. His book of poems, City of Regret, won the Zone 3 First Book Award, and his second book, Orphanotrophia, will be published by Cobalt Press in 2019.
Song of the Shut-in
Winter banks itself with paper snow. The wind
puffs like a dying man, every step a struggle.
Trees like cardboard matches. Sky a veil
of worn tights. A lawn of toenail clippings.
My skin cracks and flakes, my teeth break
thin-skinned lips, and the fire flails its brittle limbs.
Summer burrows into the earth like a fever. A hand
to the cold window. My palm ghosts the glass.
Andrew Kozma has poems appearing in Blackbird, Redactions, Subtropics, and Best American Poetry 2015. His book of poems, City of Regret, won the Zone 3 First Book Award, and his second book, Orphanotrophia, will be published by Cobalt Press in 2019.
Mr. Henry Bones (xiii)
This is palpable: the thirty cents I need
to call Arkansas, where I was
extradited from. They got me
wrong, who was
someone else. Houston, oh Houston,
where is my ticket home?
Upchuck beautiful. My body
a bathysphere untested
for these pressures your fingers
stitch me with. O science!
And your disdain for the body
as a vehicle, as driven!
The rumble of joyous
hips and ass. This earth
an Eden, this Eden a circle, this birth
of passion illusion, this desire you cry
only instinct, my desire only joyous
remission, a nervous dissolve.
Andrew Kozma’s poems have appeared in Blackbird, Cave Wall, Subtropics, and Best American Poetry 2015. His book of poems, City of Regret (2007), won the Zone 3 First Book Award.
Song of the Coming to Terms With It
First, the bargaining. Then the begging. And, at last, the realization
there’s no one in the room but you.
There are no terms to be had. No concessions to be won. Waiting for death
isn’t as lonely as death, but only just.
In Wales there is a pot they put the dead in. The dead boil and twist
their limbs into life, but are still dead.
And then there’s that philosophical fear that you’re the only real one here,
everyone else an automaton. Dead.
When every tree laces the ground with the dead. When the tall grass frays
and refuses to die. When storms don’t rain.
There is no it. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fight. Just the possibility of absence
and, eventually, its absence.