Poetry By Alorah Welti

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1992
for Dad, James, and Kurt Cobain

Among the ornateness and garbage,
Kurt Cobain walked into my dream
and did a concert with his back turned--
he and I couldn’t stop asking 
each other if we were okay.
At dinner that night, I pleaded with my father
to please make me feel less hopeless about the world dying
before I get the chance to live.
He doesn’t know I’m pleading.
He doesn’t know that my brother said
if gods were real, people would see them more often.
I said, a little horrified, people see gods all the time, 
you just don’t believe them.
My brother doesn’t know I saw the tear on his cheek,
that he is the twin I sent for.
He doesn’t know I’m still Kurt Cobain
asking myself if I’m okay.
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Alorah Welti (she/her) is a Minnesota-born feminist, synesthete, poet, and artist. Her work has appeared in Unstamatic, lavender bones, Cutbow Quarterly, Lit. 202, and elsewhere. She is a recipient of the Daniel Manacher Prize for Young Artists. She lives on stolen Mohican and Wabanaki land, just north of North Adams, Massachusetts, with her family. You can find her on Twitter at @alorahsky.