Robert Okaji



What stirs in that moon of memories? The other

side, concealed, lounging in the space of other.


The morning scowls its dark clouds.

I dream in their warmth. I sweat. I sing other.


Two halves, one burnished bright, the second,

a midnight coal, barely seeing each other.


No answers, but the beer flows bitter in my mouth.

I watch as questions take wing and form others.


Which name rings truer — the father’s

or that forged on the anviled other.


To be a part, yet whole. To be one note, a verse

in blood, a chorus. A litany streaming other.



Robert Okaji lives in Texas with his wife, two dogs and some books. The author of five chapbooks, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in The High Window, Panoply, MockingHeart Review, Sleet, Vox Populi and elsewhere.
Read more from him:
The Resonance of No, in Gravel
Helsinki, in Panoply

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