Bio Note: I’m a poet from Boulder, Colorado. I’m an author of four books of poetry and spend my days teaching students to learn how to write creatively, writing before the sun rises, wrangling my unruly family, and taking care of my equally wild dogs.
The Control Panel
The control panel is broken, metal shards, nails, and shattered lights. Beetles crawl on the ruins, blue-black carapaces drinking light from a forgotten sky, from a plane where no one can fly but you. Some beetles carry the sun, some the moon, some stars woven into a constellation of a bow, the arrow a weight where my third eye resides begging to burst out of its tenuous hold of transcendence. There is no reason control became a consequence of growing like a shell of hard bone on a tender body. There is every reason control became that shield. So don’t listen to me. I will say robins are a harbinger of spring and it will snow. I will say dark, then light. I will say worms in grave, then garden. I will comb my hair in the whipping wind that tangles it. Sometimes it’s the wind that teaches us how to make sure the walls have enough nails, and sometimes it teaches us the grace of gently falling.
©2021 Kika Dorsey
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