White Whale Review: An Online Literary Magazine Untitled Document
WHITE WHALE REVIEW
Andrew Kozma
Andrew Kozma’s poems has been published in 32 Poems, Zoland Poetry, Grist, and Subtropics, his non-fiction has appeared in The Iowa Review, and his fiction is forthcoming in DIAGRAM. His first book of poems, City of Regret (Zone 3 Press, 2007), won the Zone 3 First Book Award, and he has been the recipient of a Houston Arts Alliance Fellowship, a Walter E. Dakin Fellowship, and a D. H. Lawrence Fellowship. He currently lives in Houston. His website is andrewkozma.com.
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Andrew Kozma

End of the Applause

 

A forest of tree trunks shattering, a thunder in the rafters, applause so long

the hands begin to shed scales of skin that weigh themselves

in the air and discover the inadequacy of law, a small body rising

in a vastness of space and light to make itself known, and one man clapping

considers silence, a dust mote silvered with breath above his blurring hands,

his flesh brightening into burning coals, the dust a star in a universe of light

where the reaches are surging with detail dog-faced men classify,

label, box, store in warehouses of records, but this dust mote,

this focus for the mind, absorbs the pain in his fingers like a martyr,

glows with light as though ascending, and it is, like the chain

on a cuckoo clock, and he can think, calmly, of the disappeared,

the repatriated, the party officials revolving through their posts,

a dance in his twenties where the expected steps were a blessing

beautifully executed by the women in ripe dresses, the men prescribed

suits each to his station, suits without wrinkles, suits they could die in,

and his hands flutter away from rhythm, a Monarch’s awkward levitation,

not like this dust, and he considers death, how it spoils a suit

with the body’s decisive release, the constant waste of a body stopped

with a public declaration, then who has time for this constant affirmation,

and through a tilt of his head, or a disassociation of clouds, he witnesses dust

multiplied, his private vision dispersed to the new Secretary, the factory heads


Andrew Kozma

in the front row, even the men with hungry books in hand have their eyes

focused just before them, above name-crowded pages, and are perplexed

at the crowd of specters raised by the long clapping, the bits of self

hovering in the air, and waiting, yes, waiting, for the pause, to be let down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © Andrew Kozma. White Whale Review, issue 2.2

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