Burn Pit
Always, our need to know.
The way a burn pit is in conversation
With its burning.
How we are ordered to breathe,
To stand and breathe
So our blood can acknowledge
What is entering the lungs.
The particulates of precious heavy metals.
Vulnerable as we are, ordered
To be more so
To perform upon command
Even when we suspect it to be lethal.
And somehow, still, our need to know.
The temptation to put the knife-tip of fire
To our tongue.
Smoke rising like the voice of a chanteuse,
The Steinway’s lacquer liquifying in the heat
Air to breath to blood.
And no one, no one
Is allowed to leave.
The singer still singing her desire,
The burn pit burning brighter.
Ken Holland
Ken Holland has been widely published in journals including Rattle, Atlanta Review, Tulane Review, and Tupelo Quarterly. His work has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. He placed first in the 2021 New Ohio Review poetry contest and was a finalist in the 2024 Concrete Wolf and the 2025 Moonstone Press chapbook contests, which Moonstone subsequently published. Also, a finalist in Bicoastal Review’s 2025 contest. More at kenhollandpoet.com
