from (motion)

(           I imagined
            Derrida sitting alone,            I imagined this
            because I had been given this to imagine
                                                            I imagined the
            words I speak       because I had been given them
                                                            to speak.             I do not
                                                                            write what I want
                          I write a history                                    )

(          In the checkout line at 7-11 some white guy
                          looked me up & down from behind
            I hand the woman my cash. He got fullmoon-eyes
            hands starlings, searching desperate, the murmur
                          going snow. I wanted,       perhaps
            to be a less seeable thing.             If I is a thing to be expressed
                          there must be a language counter: an other
            that I will gently straighten a bill for, then thank.
                          Perhaps when I drive off I will see a sky
            with fullmoon-eyes,       & I’ll know there is a God
                          & he been looking me up & down from all angles )

(          This foreword plumits:
            to think,             I suffocate.
            It left me moving             barreling
                        downhill,               I think the cops were called
            I think my leg is broken.

            I can still think
            cogito ergo sum my ass.

            I hope the thought
            is the first thing to go,

                        I know because I think & I
                                    die because I think       & I
                                                die       think

                                    think
                                                            die       because

                                                think                                    )

.

.

spring (in Eden)

Apple blossom flesh
did not turn sacred
until the scrape
of a bone needle on
that rigid skull
awoke me. The creosote
mouth proceeds to
languish / I pray not
to a man / but to
the half named woman
in the apple bloom &
cherry sick & she lies down
with my harps humming
harmonics / the lapse
of the paper wrist
opens & closes &
no one believes it /
except her, swallowing
morsels of cedar
staring at me / that God
calls me a fruit
says I ain’t ever felt
blood & shame &
the seraphim birth.
But you made me

Kaja Rae Lucas is a poet from Laurel, Maryland. She is a member of the 2019 Baltimore City Youth Poetry Team, and a finalist in both the 2018 and 2019 DC Youth Poet Laureate competitions. She has been published in L’Ephemere Review, Crab Fat Magazine, The Big Windows Review, Greenspring Review, and has work forthcoming from Riggwelter, Apogee Journal, and a chaplet with Damaged Goods Press. She loves coffee and matcha green tea.