Pinecone by Ali Ismail

Ali Ismail

The last time I brought
a knife to a gunfight
he showed up with
a pinecone and a bucket.
Swindler of his own life
I had a sharper edge.
Little did I know
how the pineal gland
got its name
or that he had the
sharper mind.
Like an invoker
of great music
he wielded the organic
keys of the pinecone.
My sight retreated
backwards into the
squish of my brain.
I write to you
on keys of pinecone,
in the lost body
that houses my
pineal gland.

Ali is a hot, young, teen poet studying English at UNCG. He tries to channel the uncanny in his poetry and often finds himself in a sentimental mood.

Leave a Reply