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Kenneth Pobo
King Idanda
I’ve told my men to strengthen
Qatna’s walls. Threats, high-flying birds,
pass and return, pass again. Yet tonight
the white-crowned moon says help
will come. From my parents.
As the eldest son, I go to their tomb,
feed them cereal and beer, careful
not to disturb their bones. People ask,
“Where is our king? Doesn’t he care
that he could lose his realm?”
My father’s voice speaks when
the living and the dead have only
a thin skein between them. The feast
well prepared, we exchange
good wishes. As enemy horses
clatter closer, my parents say
not to worry, triumph is near. I return
to my trembling people who will
become lions, join my parents,
on this night of waiting.
Bergman's Summer with Monika
At work, she’s a game
guys play between loading boxes,
her home, cramped, noisy.
She and her lover sail
under a high arch
into an archipelago.
So short the summer,
a match blown out.
Food gone, she returns
to the mainland
with child. To the dark.
Winter. Bored by motherhood,
she looks for men
who want her. Briefly.
Sun, jailed in snow,
others raise her daughter.
© Kenneth Pobo
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