Christopher Sessums CC
We have not heard back from her.
The lines are down. She's under the glacier.
Her mother's lighting candles after mass
on Wednesday afternoons, praying her girl
will make it through the winter, make it to
where the ice melts.
Her brother's a cracked record of how
blue's her favorite color. He's always
had some sick defiance of the truth.
As for her father, pick a Father: God, McKinley,
or the man her mother married. It doesn't matter.
We're getting only silence from that trinity.
This could just be the beginning.
We've set a watch at the edge of the ice.
We'll keep calling for her. We'll tell you
when we get word, if we get word.
until then, we'll keep calling for her.
Keep calling for her.
In the glass
to be the sea
so that the sky
would take her
salt by salt
On the dry side of the mountain
his crops need life-support and
still, with that, the prognosis
would be bad. A graying sky
suggests the medics are on
the way. But only a sprinkle
comes, nothing but a little
tease falling on a future desert.
Kay Kestner’s work has appeared in journals since the early 1990s. She is a screenwriter, poetry, and prose writer. Her work is an unapologetic combination of gentle grace and raw reality. She is the founder and former editor of Poetry Breakfast and has led writing workshops through the Ministry of Artistic Intent and at The NJ Poetry and Arts Barn. You can find more information about her work at KayKestner.com.
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