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.


APPROACHING 31 ON STUBS

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
alive.
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

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
No.
Worse than
Dead.
Worse than
Fuck no,
or even 
Goodbye.
Only two things on earth are so cold and vain 
they aim to make you think of them as they hurt you:
Women,
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

A Lesson in Holiday Prop Choices

it is not impossible 

to have a rip-roaring fight

complete with “Fuck You’s” and finger jabs

while an enormous fresh pine wreath topped with a red bow

is wound around one shoulder like a halo

it may, however, be impossible to do it

and be taken seriously

by anyone 

A Lesson To Be Taken With Grave Seriousness

whenever possible
if ever possible
one should always avoid
drinking too much brown liquor
and poking things
with sticks

A Lesson in Farewells

there are many ways to depart
but one of the best
is by riding a rusty old bike
down the center median
of an empty road in the dead of night
under the arms of satsumas and oak
with a man's worn-in pair of shoes
poking out of the handlebar basket

most people will only see
the full moon and wriggling gas lights
a few less will see a darkened blur
and suspect you've come and gone
but a very special few will hear
your tinny, tiny bike bell chiming
good-night
good-bye
good-morning
with its single singsonging ching-ing

the fading drone note magic proof
that, yes, someone has been here
and very recently left