Poetry By Kelsey Lister

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Berth

When they said the highway might close, I should’ve gone home. The weather doesn’t bother me, but I’m not good when everything changes. This year, the first snow fell on a Sunday. And ever since that flake stuck I’ve been staring down a hole. I sat inside my car until dark, watching Jupiter become plain. Enough to rival the moon; I listened to ‘Berth’ and cried into my hands for an hour. After all the ways I’ve tried to fix myself, I’m still not right. My friends reassure me- it’s normal to be so heavy-hearted. But I don’t tell them that it’s more than what happened in November. This notion always stays and it’s always a shame. All that potential, tied to the beginning of a decade. I know I’ve lived too easy to now become so unglued. But a feeling is that, lasting and familiar. Unhurried- I risk the road, take it slow. Bitter to better until I stick too.

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Kelsey Lister is an emerging poet residing in Alberta, Canada. She has work appearing or forthcoming in Maudlin House, Selenite Press, Roi Fainéant Press & others.