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Ishle Yi Park
- USA
Railroad
One day I will write a poem
about my father as a mountain,
and there will be no shame for the dynamite
and the blasted hole, the pickaxes and steam drills
paving their own resolute path,
for the railroad ploughed through his core,
for shattered rocks, for pungent scent of pines.
My father will be a mountain surrounded by wind
that wears him down as slowly as marriage,
as America, as time. But he is still
a man and a mountain: drilled, hammered, alive,
unaware of all who love him from the far track.
Gold Hoop Sonnet
One day she will be brave enough
To venture away from stereotypical gold hoops.
From parroting her mean friend’s laughter, sitting on the stoop
For hours, trying to look half-fine, half-tough,
Sucking on a sour apple Blow Pop
Listening to the boom box’s latest hip hop. One day
She will look at her rough, scarred face
In the compact mirror without Mac eyeliner and stop
Hating those young, haunted eyes.
I hope a slant of gold light will hit her cheek,
Just right, and it will come as a surprise
To her how fine she really is. Fabulous. Sleek.
Soulful, of her own juju and mystique.
A rose fury. Black lightning when she hits the street.
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| Ishle Yi Park is the Poet Laureate
of Queens, New York. Her first book is entitled The Temperature of This Water, and
is published by Kaya Press. For more information see: ishle.com. |
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