This poem isn’t a patient thing
which can be said for both it
and I. This is refusing to die,
refusing to drought,
sipping water from the cup’s
broken glass. This poem is the last
one until the next one, the origami
before the final fold — this wing
isn’t flicking yet, not really,
it simply mistakes looking up
at the clouds. This poem is,
like every other, a willful distraction.
This poem is, like every other,
my only biting purpose in this world.
When the fire hits, its licking
tongues folding themselves
up the stairwell’s winding spine,
break the glass in, an incisor-
splicing punch. There will always
be a new poem blooming up.
About the contributor: Kara Goughnour is a writer and documentarian living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They are the author of “Mixed Tapes,” a part of the Ghost City Press Summer 2019 Micro-Chap Series. They are the recipient of the 2018 Gerald Stern Poetry Award, and have work published or forthcoming in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Third Point Press, and over forty others. Follow them on Twitter and Instagram @kara_goughnour or read their collected and exclusive works at karagoughnour.com.