HOSTED BY MIKE IVATT AND ANGELA DYE

Poetry by Kate Shannon

Kate Shannon is an organic farmer and editor from upstate New York, where she lives with her partner and too many animals. Kate has been published in Anti Heroin Chic, High Shelf Press , and the forthcoming issue of The Mithilia Review.

Transcript

Still Percolating


I am tiny magicks
And miniature pyrotechnics
You have to really be looking to see these powers
But I could burn this whole forest down,
I wouldn’t, but I could,
And isn’t it sweet 
To know your righteous power
And know that it is righteous 
By the stilling of your hands 
When they could break everything 
In the room;
Maybe even when they should
Break everything 
In the room. 
Restraint is honed,
And I have been put to the grindstone
Quenched steaming in cold oil,
Filed to severe points
And dragged across grit
To make me as sharp as I am right now;
Sometimes I still throw sparks.
 
To be honest, I am still learning to live 
Without being ignited,
To not drag myself bloody
Across those rough stones
And to speak without a hand choking 
At the throat of my blade,
To be heavenly despite my purpose; 
To be spells of warmth,
To be a built home:
Her crackling hearth, 
Rain dribbling down the roof,
Somewhere there is lightning and thunder 
And sharper-tongued flames—
 
not here.

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