When it gets
real cold,
Asad from Azerbaijan
comes to school
in a new
green and black camo
ski mask,
and secretary Kay tells him:
not a good idea,
wearing that the day after
the shooting, clips
emptied into the dance club,
but Asad doesn’t get it, doesn’t
follow the connection between
that man and him, when men
look like him, but have lost
all heart, face.
Asad lugs his books
up steps, leaves
12 copies of his poem
on my desk, lines of lust
for pomegranates and blondes,
not guns.
~ Kevin Rabas
Poet Kevin Rabas teaches at Emporia State University, where he leads the poetry and playwriting tracks. He has seven books, including Lisa’s Flying Electric Piano – a Kansas Notable Book and Nelson Poetry Book Award winner.
Guest Editor Ronda Miller is district president of Kansas Authors Club, as well as state VP of the club. She is a Life Coach who works with clients who have lost someone to homicide. Miller enjoys wandering the high plateau region of NW Kansas where the Arikaree Breaks whisper into the sunset and scream into blizzards and t-storms. Her quote, “Poetry is our most natural connection among one another” best exemplifies her belief in poetry. She created poetic forms Loku and Ukol and co authored the documentary The 150 Reride of The Pony Express. Her books of poetry include Going Home: Poems from My Life and MoonStain (Meadowlark Books, May of 2015).
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 
Nice work, Kevin. Poignant and subtle.
Dear Kevin, I love how you capture the innocence of Asad in this poem by showing that while he might look a certain way or wear clothes that could identify him with a certain group, that he is totally unaware that they could or might. This paints him as pure. While doing this you infuse storytelling so I feel like I am accompanying him up the steps to your office and watching him place his poems on your desk. Beautiful work.
Lovely!