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human / way




human / way   







In this world, it is so odd

to be young and to be still

‘cause we are told freedom is wild,

and not to keep our nomadic minds
in something perishable, like a dream. 



And there aren’t many spaces

for the odd, if you think about it.

Even in parks and museums

it is the old who sit very still

while the young, whose blooming

rages against time, march on

march on, march to beat

quicksand

ready to devour their flesh full of spice
and spit out the flavorless bone.
Any stopping is death,

so the odd know death.



In this world, it is so odd

to be young and to know death.

To know the intolerable secret

(it is just a gentle window),

   and then distrusting Gentle,

      and then facing the wall.

To be young is to feel so much.

But lately, that too is odd.



And I’ve been thinking, still 

and hidden in the silent grass, 

how odd it is to be a flower and to sag;

for that really doesn’t seem to square. 

And yet today I feel fine

being so odd. 





                                                                                    

                                               

                            



Alexandra Kulik



My work has appeared in K'in, Maudlin House, Punch Drunk Press, Bayou Magazine, Nthanda Review, and Black Fox Literary Magazine, among others.

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