Kyle Newman’s poem The Price appeared here in June 2013.
Scheherazade
By Kyle Newman
I drank alone, gazing into space, rubbing my temples. You spoke
through the book on tape playing from the stereo in the kitchen, and when
you paused at a tense moment in the plot, you heard the sound
of a young man refilling. Two characters unaware of the other’s existence.
Eventually I became perceptive to parrots addressing me in the pet store
and I studied, eyes glassy, these branches of you. Squawked to,
I continued reaching for my flask, sipping and slipping back to feeling
alone among the throng of people inside the mall.
And then I quit drinking. I walked in deep thought and the strength
of your words poured into me. I’d been the present-day version of you
the whole time and I decided to join you in your gardens and on your carpet rides.
That we both clung to existence in the habit of narration, in the habit
of pleasing other’s curiosities before our own, the habit of consulting
the masters, the habit of weaving before the fanged critics,
does not speak to my creativity but to the power of the arch forever.
Your voice cracked as your tales stretched out over each passing century.
I, stronger now, would like to rendezvous at the end of this page. Everything
I have learned about survival, I’ve learned from you.
Kyle,
Your poem reads as a memoir of journey and survival.
Favorite line: “. . . the habit of weaving before fanged critics”
Thank you for sharing.
Sharon
Kyle,
Your poem reads as a memoir of journey and survival.
Favorite line: “. . . the habit of weaving before fanged critics”
Thank you for sharing.
Sharon
And you are still here. Nice Summary of ones life.