By Christos Kalli
I tried to find a lid to contain the night, like an eye,
but my hand was consumed by the dark. On the balcony
I ask what I am and the night says nothing. A light
breeze turns my face to the mouth we call sky and I see
its black teeth turn yellow from biting the sun. Leave
but leave the oxygen behind. If you would like to stay, stay
only for What a beautiful volcano you are. Or wait
until everything we love becomes a cannibal. It happens
at dawn: predator light of the sun hides behind walls
until it’s time to ambush predator light of the stars.
One day I want to understand what eats what. I see only
their tongues, bright white and wet, fall through crevices
of surviving dark, like a slow motion car crash. I was used
to being in love with gravity until I jumped over the moon
to root the sidewalk. On the sidewalk, I ask a second time
what I am and the night finally replies and says nothing.
CHRISTOS KALLI, born in Larnaca, Cyprus, is currently studying for his undergraduate degree in English Literature at the University of Glasgow. His poetry has been translated into French, shortlisted for the Jane Martin Poetry Prize, and his INT. NIGHT was a finalist for the Sutra Press Chapbook Contest. It can be found / is forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, The Adroit Journal, The Los Angeles Review, the minnesota review, [PANK], Barely South Review, Dunes Review, among others. He is a Poetry Reader at/for The Adroit Journal. Visit him at christoskalli.com.