Gods and guardians and age-old  resentments  haunt “djanitors,” one of three decidedly flappy poems by Ian Kappos in our Winter 2016 issue.

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WE CARRIED EACH OTHER’S WATER PAST THE TREES
I couldn’t name,
down toward the lake, can’t remember which, but
there was a spatula in my chest flinging oil thru my teeth,
speckling your back and on it making daytime constellations.
The pillars spooned green-gray onto our saddlebags, we could’ve been
new, or as good as

She could’ve taken us
back
Into her pantry, I thought, into her ancient loam,
named us, tongue click-clack cloud applause—she
could’ve named us
caretakers of those
untenanted archives

But you well know, those were
ancient times when
my skin was dead to stirring winds, dry lips

While
now: you follow Ganesh
up a staircase to Babylon, wide eye smile cutting walls
crumping mirror-frames, joy untold on a veranda, a beach
awaiting everywhere

And I angry-read,
starlit on the carpet, colonizing
the stucco w/ ceramic eyes,
thinking about our unborn empire, the nirvana-life
of custodians

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IAN KAPPOS‘ short fiction and poetry has appeared in numerous online and print publications. With writer Derek Tollefson, he co-edits the new avant-garde magazine Milkfist and plays in the hardcore punk band Cross Class. He cannot whistle. A lifelong resident of Northern California, he is currently pursuing a BA in English at CSU Sacramento. Lurk him at www.iankappos.net.