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
whole.
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
eats.
Dissolves
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
eye, 
but I mostly remain
silent
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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