Wednesday, May 6, 2015

From Volume 35: A poem by Becky Kennedy

Becky Kennedy





It's Sunday morning and sun the color

of honey spills on the kitchen counter;

it’s ten or eleven o’clock and they

fill our kitchen, our son and his new wife

and their friends and the laughing, the way that

people laugh when laughing is like breathing,

laughing about beer and golf and bad luck

and graduate school, laughing at jobs they’ve

had or never had, the two wives rolling

eyes, laughing, planning Sunday. His new wife

humming as if she were baking or were

planning something really nice like golfing

while you test your clubs in the living room

where I sort my photos. In the night you


woke me to tell me again that you were

sorry, breathing sorry in the gray light,

holding my hand until our fingers slid

apart and then you asked me to walk out

on the grass wet from the rain sluicing all

night, asked me to look at the dawn sun, the

way it slipped up round and impenitent

and shed the red horizon and sliced the

sky and didn’t have to be worth the dark.

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