Poetry by Bob Kirkley

          ​Mike Maguire CC



​Bodie Island
(pronounced like “body”)

The spirit of the sea
visited me tonight
on Bodie Island.

He came as an old man
who had watery blue eyes
and hair that hung down his back,

a braided white rope. 
He grabbed my hand and asked,
“Do you know your way off

this island of the drowned?”
“No,” I said.
So he led me through memory

to another man, who did his best
raising me. And I
forgave him. 

​


​
Uncle Bill

Mr. Merrick taught fourth grade
at Gilman. His nephew, a boy
named Harry, called him Uncle Bill,
so I did too.

It used to make him smile.
One day, I studied geography
in class, memorizing
the fifty states—or

is it fifty-two?—talking
to the boy next to me about recess,
basketball, dividing up teams,
when Uncle Bill turned his crew cut

my way. I got quiet, but
it was too late. 
He marched across the room, 
slapped his hands down

on my desk, stuck his nose at the end
of mine, and, teeth clenched, said,
“One hundred times: I will not
talk in class!”

He turned his back on me
and walked away to nowhere,
the middle of the room,
his patrol.

I took out a sheet of paper
and started writing, trying
to hold back the tears,
not understanding family.

​

Bob Kirkley was born in Baltimore, Maryland. He received a BA in philosophy from St. Mary’s College of Maryland and an MA in creative writing from Florida State University. This year marks his twenty-fifth year of teaching high school English in South Florida. He has published fiction and poetry in Adelaide Literary Magazine and has poetry forthcoming in the Eunoia Review. An avid paddleboarder, he sets out once a week in the upper Florida Keys. He can be reached at https://www.facebook.com/bob.kirkley.7/.

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