Amy's poetry has previously appeared in Sol Magazine (Spring, 2010), Avatar Review (Summer, 2009), and Red Wheelbarrow Literary Magazine (Vol. 9, 2008). No use without permission.
How can so many things falling be silent?
It would be a cacophony of frenzied winging
if it weren’t for the silences falling
unbound by gravity they
fall and fall and fall
rising as they fall – a secret breath that covers me
star by star
in a foot of white
no prints, or tracks
no road
- a promise of paths to come.
You are infinite like this – an eternal blanket of six-pointed stars.
Nothing secret separates us in the frenzied silence.
Let the winging world fall
and rise and fall let it slide its starry limbs to make angel shapes –
only we
are here appreciating in silence.
©2010 bad wolf publishing, Amy Beth Kirsten
You shadow your face
to keep me from seeing
the cavern of regret,
to keep me from hearing
the clanking echo of lost things that live there.
Don’t you know?
I am not afraid of your dark.
©2008 bad wolf publishing, Amy Beth Kirsten
almost invisible
a word that no longer matters
matters almost covered with pink lint
blow away so the pieces
so easy almost
vaporized
only a faint pink impression remains
Only I let this almost happen.
Yes, I blow away.
Tomorrow, when I
when I reappear
our faint balance of author and alphabet will be upset
I’ll be a misspelled word
a word revealing something invisible
you must erase.
©2008 bad wolf publishing, Amy Beth Kirsten
the long-sticking summer
the watched clocks
killing time:
hunting for leprechaun dust
singing Kookaburra with sore throats
eating sprinkle sandwiches at a random hour
dancing sharp hip to cheek to the Stones
let’s make iced coffee
no other mothers ever suggested such a thing
after a moment of muted protest
twisting
the milky brown liquid
clocks the floating cubes
then, your moans of delight
I give in
again, long spinning
seven hundred clocks and
thirty summers later
iced fingers grip the travel mug
(spinning cubes dancing like muted bells)
no one can convince me to drink my coffee hot
©2008 bad wolf publishing, Amy Beth Kirsten
we’ve been gone for two weeks –
up the stairs now (and away from a paradise
that was sticky sweet) this
hits me heavy as luggage:
I completely forgot to have someone
water the plants
how humble and whipped they look
uncertain as a sudden stop,
a bubble blown through
a tiny plastic wand
(there is always the question of how long
it will last
before exhaling its end)
I water them furiously, repot
them, find some old
fertilizer under the sink
(they receive it shamelessly)
all the while
I’m thinking:
Am I trying to save
them, or us?
©2007 bad wolf publishing, Amy Beth Kirsten
this time
standing atop the double loop of “will”
I hold still, waiting (to see what trouble those l’s bring)
incorrect
its not trouble I’m expecting
I wait for truth (like waiting for a choir to adjust their tuning)
“you”
up close is only made of ink
I watch my hands (the blue is spreading)
soon
if I’m not careful
I will dye myself completely (while singing)
“be”
vacuums me into its valley
I look out at you (realizing)
perhaps
the only way to see truth is to climb
I hold my breath (to better hear if anyone is coming)
“there?”
is made of the best drifting wood
I rest on the “ere” (my head on “th” my left foot dangling)
and now
as I float on my word boat
I wonder if you heard me (and watch the letters drying)
©2008 bad wolf publishing, Amy Beth Kirsten