Not everyone I love talks to me
It’s true you could have
grown the skies
unprotected from harm
an arm too loose
under a window’s sheet
glass or the color
too clear a nest
to press into a book.
The shame of an end— Come home.
Skies stranger than
what childhoods keep us
crooked I said
like anything that can learn
I see you a long time
or I said or I said.
A house like a home when
or not left to their own
I never want to carry that again—
exact sound & I wouldn’t
give it up
Epidemic of Christmastime Event
How can anything from the aughts survive into the teens? Impossibly,
poems become experiences not insignificant but not signifying.
There are necessary ways of moving through streets.
Even if later, I become a sorrow— spare still water where I sometimes walk,
I have done such unimpressive things and wronged people and clapped
into mundane epiphanies and thought once
once wasn’t singular even tho it isn’t singular. See.
At some point, breakfast comes.
Friends swim in a lake.
Nothing unseemly rises.
You say you are grateful.
People point to an average
stubborn in water, weeds
of a water.
Geese cross the sidewalks and bridges.
One could say the geese.
Stacy Kidd is the author of two chapbooks: A man in a boat in the summer (Beard of Bees Press) and About Birds (Dancing Girl Press). Her work has appeared in journals including Colorado Review, Gulf Coast, Interim, and Phoebe, among others. She lives and writes in Oklahoma.