When my lottery win comes in,
I’m never gonna ride the coattails
of my father’s veins again.
St Day Road stretches three
odd miles wide, and I can still
smell the pastor’s suit in the seventh
ring of Gwennap. The seventh
flat river run red on cassette.
Are you haunted by Nebraska? Or haunting
Springsteen’s songs? I still
run the dirty streets I was born
on a conveyer belt in my mind.
Dream on it.
– Aaron Kent
I used to think the headlights running long & wild
on my ceiling as I slept were different kinds of ghosts.
Still today. Even now. I’m haunted – read frequented,
obsessed, brought home – by the way we shape
our past. Sometimes I wonder if home means only
the idea of a home, if a poem is just us at the door
fiddling with the lock. I’m haunted by all I haven’t tasted
with my mouth & all I have. This is why I’ll never weary
of love & death & the words we use or don’t
to fit our bodies through all the space between.
The word haunt means to practice habitually, with obscene
discipline. Imagine a ghost & how its task is wrecked
daily with visitation. This is how we write. Isn’t it?
– Devin Kelly