Kat Dixon
In Seoul
Call it rose days, the stars are coming down.
He has black hair, he says to lie down
Like dead do,
Play dead as one corpse or another
Within these four gates. All stars come down.
I still like the sound of the world when it’s moving
To move you.
Anyway, I didn’t
Fall into or out of the ocean, I didn’t leave
The way I could have, on a train. He has black
Eyes for remembering dead. He says to lie down.
There’s a handful of ways to remember me –
Blue dressed, little sister, fireworks. Girl gone
Down. These are our rose days, the east gate
Gone out of a compass, gone
Silent as any one corpse. He has me.
I no longer remember
Any words in the language my language
Twinned from. Stars coming down from the mouth.
These fast minutes are for rose days –
Don’t speak, little sister, not even of the dead.
I didn’t leave the way I could have, in a blue dress.
We’re so quiet, we’re dead
Lying length to length on the bed. He has
Black hair, he makes stars
Come down where the east gate was
When there was a place such as that.
Kat Dixon is the author of the poetry collection Temporary Yes (Artistically Declined Press) and the forthcoming novella Here/Other. She lives breathing-wise in Atlanta and online at www.isthiskatdixon.com.
Return to March 2013 Edition
Call it rose days, the stars are coming down.
He has black hair, he says to lie down
Like dead do,
Play dead as one corpse or another
Within these four gates. All stars come down.
I still like the sound of the world when it’s moving
To move you.
Anyway, I didn’t
Fall into or out of the ocean, I didn’t leave
The way I could have, on a train. He has black
Eyes for remembering dead. He says to lie down.
There’s a handful of ways to remember me –
Blue dressed, little sister, fireworks. Girl gone
Down. These are our rose days, the east gate
Gone out of a compass, gone
Silent as any one corpse. He has me.
I no longer remember
Any words in the language my language
Twinned from. Stars coming down from the mouth.
These fast minutes are for rose days –
Don’t speak, little sister, not even of the dead.
I didn’t leave the way I could have, in a blue dress.
We’re so quiet, we’re dead
Lying length to length on the bed. He has
Black hair, he makes stars
Come down where the east gate was
When there was a place such as that.
Kat Dixon is the author of the poetry collection Temporary Yes (Artistically Declined Press) and the forthcoming novella Here/Other. She lives breathing-wise in Atlanta and online at www.isthiskatdixon.com.
Return to March 2013 Edition