Kit Kennedy


Sipping Tea

Sheathed in wool
the unseen elbow
accomplishes the task
of fulcrum.  A marvel
what the funny bone 
must do, make possible
habit and miracle
without heaping
too much burden
upon necessity
and calm.   



Memory and Roux 

No one disagrees the kitchen
is alchemy’s playground.
Sauce coats a spoon
wiping away once and for all
the distinction concave/convex.
Who among us does not know 
place capable of ensnarling
first anklebone then kneecap
infringing on phalanges 
will not stop until it gets a taste
of tongue.  Only then memory comes
with sweet entanglements binding
a word like flour to another, perhaps fat.  
Who can tell me why over two cracked eggs
ready for fire, I caught myself this morning
hurtling your name at a distant mirror.



It’s Rumored

a pinch of salt 
from your hand 
changes a soup forever

in your ecstatic dreams
you nickname all the snow-
flakes in Sweden
photos are available 



Morning, Quiet as a Plate of Pears

The minimal suits her.  Exquisitely alone
in a small white room without bed, dresser
chair.  In the middle, a battered steamer trunk 
23 inches deep filled with ornate, textured scarves.  
She buys scarves to feed memory.  They never find
her neck only the caress of eyes and fingers. 
The green ones remind her there is no exact shade
of Spring. A red, when she rashly tells a lover, 
“Ice the words and kiss me.” This is as close 
as Margaret gets to a memoir.  



Morning Offers Nothing 

permanent
yet patterns emerge

     sirens
     crows
     traffic
     sirens

don’t worry the small
into the large
the egg so economical
no hand improves
nor demands proof 
how the exactly right
gives good weight

     paper clip
     paper sack
     clothesline
     can opener
     hanger
     cup & kettle

now contemplate the precariousness of water 

Enigmatic Beginnings/Endings Are Faced Alone Series No. 4

The day, an orange segment of promise and discipline. A whiff of vanilla and burnt batter. She packs scissors, wooden spoon, pen. When paper willing, pen glides. Pity, there aren’t more pages in the notebook. Her cat dreams the poem she is writing: a grimace causes even the dahlia to wither. She loves to work collaboratively. What could be more glorious than the full moon and new pen. Quite to the contrary, the falling leaf says gravity is not a given; pens always run out of ink. When was the last time she sat in a red wheelbarrow? When was the last time she threw a snowball at you?




Kit Kennedy lives in Walnut Creek, CA and serves as Poet-in-Residence of SF Bay Times and Resident Poet at Ebenezer Lutheran herchurch. Work has appeared in First Literary Review - East, Otoliths, Great Weather for MEDIA, Glass, Gyroscope, Muse Pie Press, Tipton Poetry Journal, California Quarterly. Please visit: https://poetrybites.blogspot.com.

 
 

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