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Kayla Boyd Dec 2014
Thomas, Roberts, Baker
Goodman, good men
I’m sure they all were.
But no man,
No saint or sinner
Can escape this quiet place.

Colossal wooden tombstone
Still aches though she died years ago,
Died years ago, and died alone.
Swelling roots the only sign
Her life on earth not carved in stone
Her story lost, like many here.

As time goes on the air gets cold
until only one marks
the dusty walkway.
They said this is what happens
when you get older
but you didn’t believe
until that fateful day.
Kayla Boyd Nov 2014
I swam in the same water
Somebody died in
I guess the same is true
for most water
(I think).
The water we drink
has been used
drip after slow drip
to drive Someone
to the brink of insanity.
no doubt.
At one point
your warm, smooth, bathwater
was choppy,
salty, grave
to more than one
sailor, pirate or slave.
The water is the same
perhaps arranged a
different way..
Know it is the same
deep, ambient killer.
Still we swim,
and still we bathe.

This water felt, looked,
I swear I thought it was pure.
A humble lake
quietly licking the salty shores
not looking for a life to take.
We fished those waters
earlier that day
hobbling in our canoe
and barely hanging on
but smiling.
I imagine he was like that, too.
Drunk from beer and the thrill
of midnight swimming.
Nobody, not even he
saw what was coming
until the lights came on:
flickering and then
too constant
red and blue and
I can only hope
that bright, blinding white.
Drunken fools know not
what is at stake.
We were forced awake
by little sister
frantic but relieved
it was not us
at the bottom of the lake.
Kayla Boyd Nov 2014
Wake and do
As you’ve always done
As you will always do
Promise after promise,
Beg yourself to be clean,
But you know you’re stuck.

Wake and clean,
Wake and obey,
Wake and bake.
Wake and take
Just one or two.
Wait for the fade out
As it kicks in.

You can try to feel pristine
Live for diamorphine
Ecstasy or caffeine
Numb from the routine.
The ***** truth is that
No drug erases life
Without bringing death.

Wake and panic,
Wake and shake,
Wake and need,
Wake with pain.
You don’t want to feel again.

Pick up the bottle
Glass, plastic childproof cap.
Pick up the needle
You need to feel normal.
But you’re stuck
Somewhere in between.
Kayla Boyd Nov 2014
if the mountains
were not just layers
of soil
the remnants of
volcanic fury

but sleeping giants
the kind you only hear about
in stories written
long ago
imagine what it would be like
if the mountains stood up

ripping away from the Mother
they've known
and the people
who depend.
what of the holes
their departure would leave?

can a mountain love me
like i love him?
tightly tucked between tectonic plates
is there a heart that yearns
to feel the sun
even closer still?
Kayla Boyd Nov 2014
On the moon there is no oxygen.
That’s where I’d like to be.
There is no wind, no rain, nobody.

On the moon, there are colors of all shapes and sizes.
And I think I’m hallucinating, but I’m only imagining.
As I float back down, I remember what it is to feel.

I don’t like it. I remember the moon.
Purple and blue and pink. I remember the feeling: nothing.
I don’t need oxygen.

I met this guy, and I told him about the moon.
I said, is there a way, how can I stay
Up there forever?

He said, I know you. I see you a lot.
He gave me magic beans, and said see me when you’re out.
Let me know how high you flew.

The magic beans did just the trick.
The moon was just the same.
And I thought,  I don’t need oxygen, this is just fine.

Someone said I could die without oxygen.
But I thought I’d die if I never got to see the moon again.
I quaked, I cracked, I cried. But they wouldn’t let me see the moon.

Someone told me I had to stop going to the moon
Or I would die.
But I don’t need oxygen, I said. This is what I breathe now.
Kayla Boyd Nov 2014
I wonder how long ago
were the days of lonely men
waiting for the sun to sink
so they could turn on their
little beacons of hope
their godly, guiding light.
When did they start sealing
off the towers?
Perhaps the man in the
lighthouse made a mistake
maybe he too lonely one night
and decided to drink
enough whiskey to forget
about is loneliness and
his little beacon of hope.
So they replaced him
with a machine.
They don't get lonely.
Kayla Boyd Nov 2014
As a young child and father search for *****
stare at cloud
so beautiful it can't be real.
I look out at the edge of the world
like a lone wife waiting for her sailor
to come home
stinking of sweat and brine
but feeling alright.

My mind wanders carelessly away
back to a place so enchanting
I dare not stay too long.
I should let my thoughts disappear to
the end
until all I feel is this expanse of clouds
blue and gray and white.
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