Two Poems by Yahia Lababidi
Could it be that, from the start
the thing he sought, this demon-angel,
was always just outside the page
That, after swimming the length of the alphabet,
with fine gills and deranging senses, he created
an opening for others, but a trap for himself?
If so, then slipping through those watery bars
was imperative, a chastened mysticism –
and freedom to write in the air, to be human.
What fanciful creators we are:
bestowing shock absorbers on cars
sprinkling tenderizer on meats
and stitching wrinkle-resistant shirts
Such wishful thinking, this
giving away what we desire.
About the Author: