Thursday Poem: ‘the dictator’ by Kerrin P. Sharpe

the dictator

the brother of birds
smokes feathers

sucks a collar
of small black tunes

coaxes thick slices
of red berries
into his bunker

preorders gasoline
shoots his dog

crushes tiny skulls
of poison for his wife

persuades his gun to talk

I really wanted to post this poem on Tuesday but didn’t make it, so this is a Thursday poem instead. I’ve just reviewed Kerrin P. Sharpe’s new collection, There’s a Medical Name for This, for Booksellers NZ. Sharpe was born in Wellington and now lives in Christchurch where she is a poet and teacher of creative writing. Sharpe’s poems are a lot of things: condensed, arresting, often surreal, and funny. What struck me about this collection was the way the poems slowly reveal themselves to the reader (her writing is deliberately elusive), and then, figuratively, knock you out.

Poem posted with permission from VUP. For more Tuesday Poems check out the hub.


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