Sarah Mackey Kirby is a poet and writer from the United States. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Connecticut River Review, Dream Noir, Punk Noir, Rat’s Ass Review, and US News & World Report. She holds a Master of Arts in Teaching and a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science from the University of Louisville. She and her husband live in Kentucky.
For the Love of Poets
I sat Paris café, Seine-faced, strapped to a chair meant for waste and cliché. Among the artists. The poets. The know-its. And dreamers. All of us sitting alone. Where gathered the thinkers, the fretters. Do-betters. Undiscovered no-namers. The walk-of-shame lovers. The talkers sipping last night away. The real. The irrational. Referencing green-leaf-arboreal. Laying claim to mercurial, mulling masterpiece strokes with a pen. Drinking in spin. Folks of same vein. This international blend of chagrin and insane.
When I bake, it’s the best lemon cake you’ve tasted. That ought to make me smile. And my poetry. The next Emily. You nod through every word, even as you scratch your head. Because blood clot mornings and brain bleed afternoons weren’t supposed to happen. Not to me. And you understand. You. Understand. Dreams curl like thread wrapping a spool. How watching me hurts you. So every crease in your clothes, I iron perfectly. Every coffee cup placement, I space-plan strategically. I am Monet landscaping Giverny when I paint roses and phlox. Possess the greenest thumb ever to grow dill. Wear a sexy silk dress in sweats and holed socks. You’re determined to convince me. You. Must make up for it all. For my plans. Sea-sunk to bottom sand. Your pained eyes shine endless encouragement, as you lift this burden. Shoulder my off-balance drift. How the weight of that. On you. Is the heaviest I carry.
Love me till the realness falls away from here, in kisses whisking ’way the blues. All the confused hard-knock no-joke news. System shock to my insides, hiding scar-messed skin in midnight August room. Give me Zen-spiced tangled nighttime promise of ’s’all-gonna-be-alright. While sprinkled moon’s sheet-creased shadows slide hold-me-tight escape from heart-mend, skull-slice mere-minutia mornings. Transform these tears to honey drops. Can’t-remembers. Stop-time-brakes. Hold me in my rhythm-left, in love-me-swept, in sweat-laced folds of you.