Fatal Plunge


I hear, a million points of view

Border games on ripped atlas scraps

wandering has pulled me away, and afar

over land and seas,I left behind lost breadcrumbs

bradycardiac, my pulses beat, and I stagger to stand

In hope, at many homesteads

she sets a hot pot of coffee as she wrings her hands

he fills his chocolate jug with spices and anticipates

they sit around a kettle full of kahwa, intending to mourn


silence wearing thin, I howl aloud

roam the streets, into arteries of brick towns

where ruins emerge alive, echoing young lives

ghostly screams of greeting, guffawing at little deaths

danger of separation, palpable in the migrant caravan

bullets pierce broken wings, voices break out of breath

faded eyes loom large over dark tents

banished families, and human parts

nervous air across them all

young and old alike

chaos to chaos, they search

crowd to crowd, they collapse


fatal plunge, to a corner of final rest

pathway to pathway, gamble if you must

dare to lead if you can

your identity and mine

will go down as rubble

no matter which side of a border or wall

into the same water

we will bite the same dust



NaPoWriMo 2018

Bolded words used above are from the Sylvia Plath poem Family Reunion – referenced below

Family Reunion, Sylvia Plath

Outside in the street I hear
A car door slam; voices coming near;
Incoherent scraps of talk
And high heels clicking up the walk;
The doorbell rends the noonday heat
With copper claws;
A second’s pause.
The dull drums of my pulses beat
Against a silence wearing thin.
The door now opens from within.
Oh, hear the clash of people meeting —
The laughter and the screams of greeting :

Fat always, and out of breath,
A greasy smack on every cheek
From Aunt Elizabeth;
There, that’s the pink, pleased squeak
Of Cousin Jane, out spinster with
The faded eyes
And hands like nervous butterflies;
While rough as splintered wood
Across them all
Rasps the jarring baritone of Uncle Paul;
The youngest nephew gives a fretful whine
And drools at the reception line.

Like a diver on a lofty spar of land
Atop the flight of stairs I stand.
A whirlpool leers at me,
I cast off my identity
And make the fatal plunge.

Published by Kashiana

I am a management professional by job classification and a work practitioner by personal preference. One poetry collection - Shelling Peanuts and Stringing Words and a chapbook, Crushed Anthills. Always gathering poems, and letting them marinate and change shape and form.

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