Sunday, July 6, 2014

Approaching 31 on Stubs (a Short Girl Birthday Poem)

Original Photo by Agnes Fohn Photography, (C) 2014

Written while staring down 31, then realizing you need a step ladder to look it in the eye.


My legs haven't grown.
They say third time's a charm,
but three decades have passed
and they remain abridged.
Apparently I was not destined to be a torso,
and head,
set upon giraffe gams,
or to grow into a lithe antelope woman
made of sloping lines toe-walking in knife-sharp heels.
I'm okay with it.
At least it's time to be.
We still need pixies.
We still need
someone to wear the scraps
cut off other jeans made
for longer bodies.
We need the travel-size army keeping the hemming industry
The invaluable insight into urgent matters like
the nuances of the undersides of chins,
or the perks of speaking to navels,
can only be obtained by miniatures looking up.
(Also children.)
Still, sometimes,
when slithering into
worn-in mens t-shirts,
borrowed for spooning or sleep,
my wish,
my always wish,
will be for a ballerina's base:
Two long extensions,
sinews taught
to wrap around your waist
like climbing ivy.

(C) Kimberly Kaye 2014

Conversations for One, or Two, or Both (to Peter Pan)

If Tinkerbell and Wendy had been the same person, Peter Pan would be married and living in multiple tree houses without children. 

Conversations for One, or Two, or Both (for Peter Pan)

At times it becomes as simple as a one question, like: 
what do you see. 
what color stands out. 
do you reach for red or blue to edit the landscape; 
how would you want to get there. 
who should meet you and I. 
and if it rains, 
and it will, 
are you happiest drying out slowly, 
or stealing new warm clothes 
to change in? 

(C) Kimberly Kaye 2014

French Door Lesson (you were told)

Written staring through the slats of splintering french doors just before dawn one hateful Southern morning. It was wonderful. There was tea. 

FRENCH DOOR LESSON (you were told)

I hate
I told you so.
Worse than
Worse than
Worse than
Fuck no,
or even 

Only two things on earth are so cold and vain 

they aim to make you think of them as they hurt you:
and I told you so.
(They frequently travel together.)
I hate the words.
They're the only hate left burning in an aging chest.
I'm too old to ache for more than one thing at a time anymore, 

and I don't want to think that hard 
about something that's hard enough.
They put fishhooks in your gums,

barbed truths,
and you can't turn a head to argue.
You were wrong.
You were so very wrong
that someone else saw it coming
while your back was turned,
and you didn't bother
to watch their eyes.

(C) Kimberly Kaye 2014