No room, no room
Ask and he will come
Carve harmonies from your heart,
I asked him to come,
My infant blood to be bloomed with his.
No sundays. No rays. Nothing.
Then I asked paintings.
The brush spoke in scars,
Bore through my left hand.
Through 8th steet station
The horn warns it's not stopping
But already I had stepped close
And into the rush.
Steel reflective door after door
Chased out by red lights
And onto more tunneling
Left behind under the fluorescents
Caught in that city amber,
Not the celluloid and cyan desire that just left me.
Who gets to step ashore?
The saint and single teared Indian
In the commercial
Had fast food thrown at his feet
Though his skin was eggshell.
And you knew
He had other names for everything.
It was called The Singing Christmas Tree.
At its base, the hosanna procession had stopped and
The soprano on the top tier closed her mouth.
The full sanctuary stared at the plastic baby.
Gloria in excelsis Deo.
By Kamal Ayyildiz
Kamal Ayyildiz is a poet and visual artist. He has received fellowships from the VCCA, Edward Albee Foundation and MacDowell Colony. His work has been exhibited and published both in the U.S. and abroad. His book of poetry and photography, The Cistern, was published in 2006 by Citlembik Press. More of his writing and his visual arts work can be found at kamalayyildiz.com.
Work for Monthly Verse is selected through our editorial process. New poems are selected from authors that submitted work for the last issue. Read more authors by subscribing to Fjords.