Kenneth Reveiz was born in New York City. A junior at Yale University, his work has appeared in The Yale University Art Gallery, The Yale Literary Magazine, The Yale Daily News, The Yale Herald, Volume Magazine, L’amuse-bouche, and The Yale Journal of Human Rights. His first novel, Un certain regard, awaits a publisher. He can be reached at kenneth.reveiz@gmail.com.


Mirabeau Bridges

Finally endless streams stop Never
much reason in rhyme now

The dirtied fish The brown layer
surface-skimming Hello

Nothing I want to say
has a mouth Violent reason

for my own bridgefulness





​Port-au-Prince

After the devastation, the smoke having risen from the earth,
The homes crumbs, the photographers taking baths,
That Sunday, in front of the split
Cathedral, the priest stands black, eyes closed,
The women ashamed of their t-shirts,
Now their best clothes

In the pictures are wounded boys shaped
By the falling stones;
A shirtless one looks into
A mass grave, the bodies’ rotting rising
To his flat, dark nose and face;
The photographer has not turned away

The New York Times, the screen, tell me this--
The earthquake—apocalyptic Port-au-Prince; Tonight
He straddles me, takes a picture of me, ecstatic that I am beautiful,
Onto my smooth chest his shadow stretching,
The film curling into the camera as smoke rising,
The child looking into the hole