KianaRose writes

Na Zdravi *

 

Salted air tinged harsh 

with Russian winter biting back breaths

that taste of rum,

                of wine,

                of cheap absinthe children shouldn't buy.

We were tall and ugly; 

cloaked in holey sweaters and combat boots

We forgot our socks. 

Said it would make us stronger. 

We forgot our heads 

and danced in the darkness. 

Numb toes. Numb hearts. 

We were

                children

celebrating the death of 

                children

who grieved the lives of 

                children 

as unfortunate as we were that night. 

Tall and ugly,

we toasted their accomplishment, 

bit back our breaths, 

peered into our darkness,

and wished we died with them.  

______________________

 " "Cheers" in Czech (the untold setting of the poem). 

 

 Absinthe Dreams --Leif Rogers

KianaRose writes

Song: #1

When God stirred the pot to create you he must have fallen asleep.

Drooled into your mixture.

Formed you clumsily.

Yet, despite you and all your ugly,

       you found the heart to tell me 

                                  "that love could not exist" 

                                                       because my skin was the wrong color. 

But, still, the curves of our hands managed to melt into one.

And I hated every freckle that kissed your skin, 

your deformed, lizard grin, 

your hair that could not be brushed. 

Hated that when our lips touched the world was        and  

                                                                             flat          dead; 

So, we'd cling to each other's hearts 

and you'd touch me to heaven

where I'd curse God for making love not exist 

without you and all your ugly.

 Thread --Njideka Akunyili

KianaRose writes

January 7, 2015

The night I danced on icy roof in Prague

Was the night people were shot dead in France

Je suis Charlie!

But I wasn’t.

We weren’t.

At least not me and drunken friends dancing on icy roof

Boy wanted girl and girl said no but wasn’t strong enough

That night

So I stepped in and kicked the boy. Wrong boy.

This boy loved me. And me?

“I’m just not feeling it.”

I wasn’t feeling a lot of things that night.

That year.

That life.

Dancing on icy roof

in cut off shorts my mom made,

because who can afford to buy them?

and an old scratchy sweater,

I stole from my dad.

Wild.

Free.

I danced to the sound of brisk air and white noise.  

“Lesbo” was a common taunt when I was in the 7th

 grade.

Had nothing to do with actually liking girls.

I just wasn’t feeling boys.

My head cared more for comfort in words bound by time

Than the comfort of some guy’s arms.

Dancing on icy roof,

I wasn’t in the 7th grade anymore.

16.

Wearing clothes much too large to hide a body,

square and boyish.

Legs too long, meant for jumping.

Meant for dancing on icy roof.

Prague didn’t care that I lied about hating my English teacher.

Didn’t care that I re-read Hamlet twice.

Didn’t care that I watched the news on my Saturday nights.

Didn’t care that I laughed too loud or snorted when the joke was too good.

Didn’t care that I bounced in my step.

And didn’t care that I had people call me Kiana because some idiot in kindergarten

Said my name was ugly.

Prague was made from light.

And despite its darkness it glittered gold;

Like my heart did when I learned how to read.

Like my heart did

That night, dancing on icy roof in Prague,

I kicked the first boy to ever love me,

And people were shot to death in Paris

Je suis Charlie.

But I wasn’t Charlie.

I was the gun.