I’d like to sing a new song, but all my carols / sort of sound the same: same names, same awe, / same snow in places where it doesn’t snow / often. My gods all follow the same laws...
to hold home for kindred lovers / massage intimate memories with laughter, / weep and sway to the tremble of spirits’ feet / beating the ground in circles ’round here...
She was a mean love that way; she loved a latched gate, and a dead landlord beneath the steps, and all things of heaven made cold to touch and safe to house...
For the next eight weeks, BP Review will publish a new poem that engages with the idea of power. These poems will collectively highlight the range and journey required to connect to the source, both within ourselves and between one another...
