Poetry by Kenneth Radu


The wind blows the moon

out of the sky,

clouds bank against the stars

and there is no light tonight.


Hunger is insatiable;

the first movement is my eye

then the slow crawl of fingers

across my chest where a dead

heart still beats.


Scholars seek historical

equivalence, Vlad the Impaler,

like scientists explaining myth.

I am pre-existent, made manifest

in dreams and icons of deepest

despair and the psyche’s unlit

corners, cobwebbed and shrouded

like the sky tonight.

What good a cross without belief

against my incisive teeth,

what good garlic in the window

when they invite me over

thresholds into their sleep?


Down the road from the castle wall

which I climb with cat-like

efficiency, a man left his wife

for another land to break new

ground. He still carries me

the way she caries his unborn

child, and she is alone tonight.


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