PANK Magazine :: 9.7 // July 2014 :: what she didn’t say: by Kim Kent
Is I. I am not your hand
which I know, as it checks
for water, pats your seat once,
then twice. I am not
what you ask for when you
look for what you
need: something with palms
open or head hung.
She didn’t say: I didn’t say I
will be here when you
come back. But I will. Be here:
come back. I didn’t say I
am thirst or I have thirst
as you are not
my water. Didn’t say
I am small, thin as this instant
or over. I didn’t say don’t ask
for that, or if you do
lift your goddamn head.
[Read more of Kent’s poetry here.]