Poetry: by you, I see only blue light by Kaja Lucas
Kaja Lucas captures an essential modern and American element in “by you, I see only blue light”—the feed, the incessant reference to what has faded and what demands to stay alive. Almost a sonnet, almost an ode, almost, finally, morning.
by you, I see only blue light
All my niggas was half crunk: teetering on tightropes
of iPhone flashlights. Included, unnoted, was the textual
reference to a body that is not my body. To a light
that was not my light. The white folk kept watching
and Jesus was there— so was Mary— all the fingers
pointing for justice closed around a walker. Included,
unnoted, was the body in that room that is not—
was the light in that room that is not—A priori,
the room turned into a room— or was not
a room. But the stanza held prepubescent black boys
who laughed like men before the drink turnt sour,
Light entered and the thought of asking was overruled:
The black fades / the boys faded: cascades of gunshots—
no— I knew this before I knew this— I collate my missing.
The twitter feed closes: I forgot morning, sun unrisen.
Kaja Rae Lucas
Kaja Rae Lucas is a poet and writer based in Maryland. She is a member of the 2019 Baltimore City Wide Poetry Team, with her poetry published in Cosmonauts Avenue, Riggwelter Press, Crab Fat Magazine, and elsewhere. She is the author of (beamphrase)(circles), published with Damaged Goods Press in the 2019 Chaplet Series. Also, she's tired. Be gentle.
