To the Protestor at the Pride Parade

by Andrew Kozma


Your idea of Heaven is a small nut no one can crack.
A nut too long on the ground boasts a waste of meat.

Meat rotting wherever it was laid to rest gives birth,
at last, to a gross of worms, all proving to be some use.

I want to remember you as tattered in voice and cloth,
your teeth yellowed stones, your eyes starfished with blood.

But you hold everyone else inside your inchoate anger.
I stepped far around you, as though you were catching

thoughts I hadn’t yet begun to think, but I’d be blamed for
all the same.  The air fogged with beads and condoms.  A man

shouldered a wheeled cross while another danced by, floating
like an angel, nearly nude, earthbound and rude with sex.


Read more poetry in our current issue