Poetry by Kenneth Pobo

TOM

An orphan,
I got sent from 
house to house,
sometimes beaten
badly.  I made
my getaway
to the West.

At fifteen
older men
raped me,
passed me around.
I wasn’t alone.
We had no one
to tell.
Many of us
died before
we turned 21,
graves unmarked.

Look for us
in dust.


​

IF I FELL

My promises break.
Their busted twigs  
litter my house.  
My own road to hell 
isn’t paved at all.
Promises die 
under pebbles.
I mean to keep them,
honest.  They gnaw holes
in letters of my name.
I forget who I am. 

Please promise me
forever.  I won’t promise 
anything.  I’ll make you 
a sandwich of darkness,
chop up some moon.

​

​
Kenneth Pobo has a new book out from cyberwit.net in India called Wingbuds.  His work appears in Chiron Review, deComp, North Dakota Quarterly, Mudfish, and elsewhere.  He likes growing African violets and dahlias.