Poetics Presents

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Poetics Presents

Kathy Kubik

Kathy Kubnik has been writing since she could pick up a pen. She is a member of WVU, and is currently taking poetry courses there. She is 27 years old, and resides in Illinois. She works full time and attends DePaul University where she is pursuing her BA with a focus in creative writing.

Kathy says that her definition of poetry is: "a song, a painting, a morsel of something tangible that calls out to me, sings to me. For me, reading poems is my fix, my "trashy novel," pieces of me yet undiscovered. My hand in the cookie jar, soon to discover the milk chocolate morsels that have melted on my hands, a reminder for later. Each poem I read becomes a part of me."

T-Zero is pleased to publish Kathy's first poem.

The Shining Path Trials

In the courtroom Indian women
wear felt hats decorated with flowers,
purples and pinks peep out from the crowd.
Men in patched trousers and worn sandals
flinch as the story unfolds.
Go tell it on the mountain.

In the Ayacucho province,
ragged with smoke grey mountains,
deep jungle cloaked with valleys,
is a little village named Chiakee.
Go tell it on the mountain.

Hooded rebels, faces hidden
arrive before dawn as
husbands and wives, hands held tight
mouths tilted upwards, towards Him,
sing a hymn of devotion.
Round notes explode into the air,
a mixture of prayer and chant in
Quechua and Spanish.
Go tell it on the mountain.

Black heads, black hoods,
"Yanayuma" the villagers call them
behind their backs
instruct the women to continue with their hymn
as they separate the men,
23 in all.
Go tell it on the mountain.

Wives take a last look
into eyes they've loved, laughed with,
as Rebels kill each man,
crush heads with rocks
cut throats, cut tongues,
stab hearts, backs.
Intestines on display
Husbands die slowly,
the hymn sung softly now, with gags and tears.
Go tell it on the mountain.

Soldiers guard the dumps until
dogs and pigs are finished rooting them,
the scent of flesh intoxicating,
leaving nothing but bare bones.
Before fleeing, they take
blankets, ponchos, sewing machines, radios
Everything.
Go tell it on the mountain.

In the courtroom,
20 years later and
a stadium-full of people gone,
30,000 to be exact,
a woman in her forties now,
with button eyes and missing teeth,
lists off the names of the 23 men
that went missing that night.
She sings the hymn
once again.

Go tell it on the mountain.
Over the hills and every where;
Go tell it on the mountain,
That Jesus Christ is born.

Copyright (c) 2002 by Kathy Kubik