20160421

Kit Kennedy



MIRAGE

Much written about this place of no words where eavesdropping encouraged. After you quench your thirst and tire of the wind, remember not to overlook the small poems in the crevices behind those red rocks. The guidebook insists where you are standing was once a door. Of course, the door was green as all doors are by their Spring-nature. On another topic, off the coast of Brazil, indigenous plants are forming gills. Or is it quills?

Nevertheless, remember in the country of dreaming, postcards are always appreciated.


IN THIS DEEP STILLNESS

it is imagination
which rattles the solitary
tree and sirens the unlikely
migration of crows


LOST. FOUND. THEN AGAIN

There are no small trees. No tiny tastes. The hand pummeling a lemon releases a sting of sour the mind scrambles to name. The hand cracks an egg on a counter where unspoken words get sticky. Your grandmother, who never wore a shade of blue and sipped gin from a chalice, taught you this act of breaking. Does this explain why the sweaters in your closet grow scratchy? Why you so desperately love red shoes?




I READ CHIYO-NI to MY LOVER to WOO HER OVER

of course
there are those pesky
poetic bits
of moon
to contend with
tucked
inside the intimate
folds
of Autumn’s
kimono


     ***

and in her sixth decade she learned to fold socks



Kit Kennedy has 5 published collections including while eating oysters (CLWN WR BKS). She lives in San Francisco and is the Poet-in-Residence of The SF Bay Times and Ebenezer herchurch. She has never outgrown her love of red shoes. Please visit: http://poetrybites.blogspot.com.
 
 
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