I Am Alive, Skidding
I get it: you think about a woman you know.
That’s as outlaw as it gets. Devoted
to goldenrod – the odds are bad. An inflexible
world with wrong streets, baths & dead
flowers – look at that! You bought lemons too. I still love
mothers with no style & cavities – a half-ton
crush. Pitchforked in a salt-worn dream anchor. This space:
my body believes everything’s home. (And how does that measure
me?) There is a word I could charge inside skin. In your going, you
left me a new country – just as binding. Still loving women, loving
trees, a doorstep. An attic forces its way up. This hand is easier
to hold a splash of glass, window-blessing, cloth eyelids, the idea
of hair. Then I will have eaten. Then I will know
a human temperature.
Eve Kenneally (from Boston by way of DC) is a freelance writer and recent alumna of the MFA program at the University of Montana. Her chapbook, “Something Else Entirely”, was recently released by Dancing Girl Press. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Yemassee, Whiskey Island, Bop Dead City, decomP, Stirring, Crab Creek Review, Blue Monday Review, and elsewhere.