Poetry - Issue 12 | June 2011

Two Poems by Andrew Kuhn


After the last of him, it was good
to go away. Change the sky—just like that.

Thorn scrub, lizards, mystery pieces
of rotting fruit knew nothing
about her, cared less. She approved.

Half-wild, skinny horses didn’t startle,
scrounging along the pitted roads.

Long, empty beaches brimmed
with coral smithereens.

Afternoons held enough heat to prove
the futility of doing much. 
Through brush and gutters and sandy lots
sifted ordinary collections of trash.

All that week nobody showed any interest
in her: the anglo bartender
with his matted rasta swirl,
the chesty fellows at the beach drinking beer,

the fishermen, who didn’t show off
their fish but hefted closed coolers
from their boats to the wharf
as the sun went down, without ceremony.

It must have been hot that time of day,
walking the winding, sandy track
into the zone no longer forbidden.

The old ammo bunker was overgrown,
and the last man out had spray-painted clear
above the stone lintel that framed no door.

On the threshold, facing the dark,
Did heavy sun fall on her shoulders, her neck?
Maybe she hesitated, listened for snakes.

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About the author

In his knockaround days, Andy Kuhn fixed up an abandoned building, ran a firewood business, worked as a tutor and a journalist, and traveled in Africa and India. Now a psychologist, he lives with his family in the New York area, and enjoys exploring with them.You can find his work in The Chimaera.

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