Kendall A. Bell - Two poems

Like salvation 

And here is the jar of stars I've 
collected - your name etched 
into each glowing corner. And here
is the pulse of my wrist against the
soft flesh of your legs, a reminder
of devotion, the Morse code of an
unspoken truth. And here are the
arms I travel like memory, like the
record playing over and over into
the deep corners of evening. And
here is the weight of what I carry
each day, in all of the inches of 
skin, in the name of this perfect
thing we cannot name, but know to
be our reason to open tired eyes,
to hold like a newborn - like salvation. 




Come bail me out of this god forsaken precipice

I watch her cat eyelinered eyes flutter
in the strain of the artificial light
at 1am. Her body, a still, pale softness
surrounded by a deep sofa embrace. Her
forehead tilted back and exposed. I want
to make a ritual of kissing the taut flesh,
watch the anxiety's release, let the glow
highlight the perfect inches between the
blonde waves of her hair and the exhausted,
pinked toes that are shoved between flattened,
old seat cushions. In this moment, I do not
have to cast a line to find convincing words.
I slowly drag switches down, open the blinds
to let street lights become night lights and
twist my body into a comma on the floor along
side her - listen to the voices tell me that
this slippery slope will leave me as empty
as the freezer, where two ice cubes sit in
solitude among three empty trays. I listen
to the sound of her sleep breathing and it's
too late. I tumble into freefall and hope that
by morning, she catches me.




Kendall A. Bell's poetry has been most recently published in Anti-Heroin Chic and Philosophical Idiot. He was nominated for Sundress Publications' Best of the Net collection in 2007, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2015. He is the author of twenty four chapbooks. His current chapbook is called "Chasing The Skyline". He is the founder and co-editor of the online journal Chantarelle's Notebook and publisher/editor of Maverick Duck Press. His chapbooks are available through Maverick Duck Press. He lives in Southern New Jersey.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Taylor Emily Copeland - Two poems

Image
Kala gives a tour of hell This is the metal box he locked me in. This is the chain he used to keep me bound. This is where he shot Charlie three times in the chest. This is where he buried him, like a dead animal. This is where I was allowed to walk around, like a dog, to smell the air, to hope for release. This when we hear about how likeable my captor was, how he was a great boss, a model citizen, never the type to do this. This is when I don't talk about my bare back against a metal floor, about tasting his scent, about the thumping sound in closed in spaces, and how it echoes in my teeth and eyes. This is when you can read about the fourteen year old that he bound and forced, about how they released him, gave him the chance to step up his game. This is the hole a gun makes, a shovel makes, a void makes when someone you love dies. This is when I give the story an edit, a heroine. When someone asks me what its like to kiss another girl It tastes like cotton candy,
Read more

Alla Vilnyansky - Two poems

Master Class: Cinderella Practicing Violin It takes special skill to acknowledge that almost anything may be mended. My mother plays the piano, beats her knuckles against the black and white keys—welds sounds together. Fingers thick; nails painted crimson not the typical hands of a concert pianist. Above her depicted in a Victorian dress—the instrument serving as her accessory; her captive audience. Who unhinged the gate through which her carriage, was set to arrive? (previously published in Zaum) On Lenin’s Mausoleum and Love After Jenny Browne Not every glance is capable of conveying all things at once: love, anger, frustration. I remember your mother’s house the inside of a ship. I know you thought things would be alright turning to sand, all of it coming down. In “Love Letter to a Stranger” you’re always you and I’m always me. A body you’ll do anything to preserve. (previously published in Scryptic) Alla Vilnyansky was born in the Ukraine and came to t
Read more

Jonathan Dowdle - two poems

3 AM Insomnia Perhaps, my darling, The most intimate thing we can do Is give another our sorrow, To be open, split, and vulnerable, Even while knowing The wound might not be sealed, But left open, and crying, The way a child does, Without shame, or reprimand, But merely To have the hurt held As though it were just another Part of us. Ache You beat until you bruised my heart, You don't get to ask Why it's gone black.  Jonathan Douglas Dowdle was born in Nashua, NH and has traveled throughout the US, he currently resides in South Carolina. Previous works have appeared or are appearing in: Hobo Camp Review, 322 Review, The Write Place At The Write Time, Blue Hour Review, and After The Pause.
Read more