Jemshed Khan has poems in places like Rigorous, I-70 Review, Writers Resist, Coal City Review, TheHypertexts, and Fifth Estate. He was just nominated for The Pushcart Prize and has completed a chapbook.
I work loose an upper edge.
His smaller moons are lifeless
but breath still rushes like a waterfall.
Even the fixtures are gold-plated.
Faces pause for fluttering flag: Anthem rises.
Hands over hearts we hymn that old war song.
Then a player drops a knee: Thread-jacks the script-
ed playbook scene, hacks the broadcast dream.
Instead, we rainbowed the space― hung sexy lace.
I ordered Gitmo closed and asked for the extra clothes
to patch together a warmer wintery scene.
We clothed some homeless folks in Georgetown,
gave them three squares each and a jail house cell.
My fists drum my
chest an de Village Spirit He leap to
dance in me. In hymn o plen-tay
my momma voice still weep, she
now comfort me. An in hymn o