Excerpt from “In the Land of Light” by Kurt Klopmeier

Our skin starts firm
but loosens every day
until it no longer fits,

like we’re wrapped
in plastic. We crinkle
when we walk

till we step out of our husks
born anew.




We practice pity
on inanimate objects.
When we cut a flower
for our vase, we say

“We need
your beauty, which—
let’s face it—is fleeting.
We’re having a dinner party!”




The bone china of our teeth
click and chatter
in our mouths.

We know our friends
by the sound
emanating from their heads.




When we pass,
our auras brush
and tingle
like petting a cat
the wrong way.




Milk and honey sustain us,
flow into us sweet.
The warmth radiates,
stomach into limbs

out fingers, mouths, the tops
of our heads. We become
conduits, each of us
a tiny moon.



You can read the rest of “In the Land of Light” in our Long Poetry Issue.




Kurt Klopmeier lives, teaches, tutors, and writes in Boston. He received his MFA from the University of Massachusetts Boston and has published poems in apt, Consequence, Damfino, and ripple(s).

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