I dreamed once of a little child
Whose name was that of stone,
And for all I’ve ever felt alive
That child has felt alone.
We’ve wandered long, two specters twinned
Up to the gates of hell,
But for all our silent, ghostly looks,
I could never really tell
If that child followed in my wake,
A lonely phantom saint,
Or whether it was I who trailed,
Sullen, bruised,
likely to faint.

I get the feeling he has walked
Much farther yet than I,
Yet wander on I know he must —
Little longing yet to die.
So let us go then he and I
Into that depth of place
That stops as suddenly as a fall
In his ghastly childish face.

©K Paige Medina 28 June 2017


The Runners

There go the runners,
Taut limbs in motion like
Spiders’ legs
Panting with life,
Carrying with them
Eyes a hundred years old and still
Moving like lizards
Through the red streets of home.

Hear them running
Up from the wells and rivers
From the desolate schools,
Feet flying
With the royalty of their
Own insignificance,

My god
Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?

Mouths open,
Speaking the language of youth
Of mischief,
Of secrets

Theirs is the movement
Of limitlessness,
The rhythmic language of
Theirs the power of knowing
And not accepting

©K Paige Medina 9/3/2016