Poetry by Lucas Khan

It is a gift not to see
the news on my chart,
that my MRI
is on a compact disk
in my hands
and CD’s are vestigial.
That my insides rend apart
on the rainbow patterned surface.
It is a gift
how words like “every-step-
of-the-way” taste
like anesthesia--
forgetting the height
of each stair.
The chair by the window
is empty.
How bedside flowers
wax pestilence,
although the petals
are beautiful and young.
It is a gift how you
are nowhere to be found.  

I lured a woman
into my wound,
as if she would make me
I meant to say,
You shouldn’t step
inside me.
This body is crumbling.
I didn’t see the fissures
in my heart,
in my palms
clutching your waist.
The word wound
comes from womb,
as in, to create is to open
a door of suffering.
On our first date,
we swayed like flames
in the kitchen.
We opened all the doors
in the house.

This disease
my temporal lobe
into fluent aphasia.  
I keep meaning to say
that I’m spilling out
on the pavement.
That joy gets lost
in the cataract of my blind
but I mostly remain
not knowing how to speak. 
Sometimes when I laugh
I break wide open. 
I need to escape
from my unlocked cage.
The door is ajar.
I find that absence
can also fill a body
like a truant cure.
A curse.
I sent you away
and my body
hasn’t broken down yet.
Why not?
On nights
when only a few lights
burn in Atlanta,
the sirens soften,
I still taste mint
cigarette and bourbon.
Hear Blue in Green
in the kitchen and dance,
my hands on your waist--
my hands holding air.

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