Question & Answer 5 – Carrie Adams

Question 5

Special is tiring
is barely special
when you tire
of attempting spectral.

Do you ever
get a postcard
back? Do they tell
you they turned

your room into
a gym? My old
address is one of
twenty seven

spread from Redruth
to Florida
and back again.
Each postcode

another notch
in a web I long
to catch my family
within. Tango romeo

one five

– Aaron Kent

Answer 5

I receive the postcard I sent myself
I count the years in words learned

Clinging to the windows of high-rises
caught in a shaft of air that might be enough

We are desperate creatures
who forget in the name of forgiveness

I tweeze out every shard of mistake
the pieces of gravel in my bloodied palm

Don’t ask me why I fell
Ask me what shape I made in the falling

– Carrie Adams


Question & Answer 4 – Carrie Adams

Question 4

The web you built has found itself
in coils around the back of my hand
as I try to construct meaning from
the little spiders crunching through
their mother out of the corner of
my eye in the spaces where the
window meets daylight and don’t
you think it’s nice to be told you’re
special by somebody even if that
person wears your clothes and your
smile and brushes your teeth
in your mirror at night?

– Aaron Kent

Answer 4

I gave up the idea of special
I woke up tired
and wanting to believe takes so much work
I can just live the loneliness
I send postcards across town
to my old address
Look at that afternoon sky of self-induced grief
Look at the knot letting go
slowly slipping with each step
These webs, these coils, each
have a name
The giver giving up

– Carrie Adams

Question & Answer 3 – Carrie Adams

Question 3

We held snowflakes to our storm
and grew geraniums
in the corner of my mother’s

My story was not my brother’s
storm was not my storm was
not my brother’s story.

I pinch the dirt
with broken fingers,
swallow prazosin
to blow the soil away.

We lay our lives out
in photographs on the bedside table,
my whole life in a sandwich bag
in the drawer.

What do you keep
your bed side?

I can count my victories
on the broken tills
hidden behind the ice cream freezer
in the cinema I left behind.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 3

A spider’s web of cottonwood vibrated
Our eyelids opened and closed
on the robin’s eggs cracking

I kept my regrets on the bedside
And turned my back to them
My body curled toward the window, the wind

We keep thinking we’re special
But I am the unmaking
Just like everyone else

A sweaty body stuck to the bus seat
A too long stare at people on the sidewalk
A confusion of passing between left and right

I too could swell full of ocean water
And wash up on a letter’s shore.

– Carrie Adams

Question & Answer 2 – Carrie Adams

Question 2

The tiniest places I know
exist in the borders of my flower bed,
my waste of time – shades – grows into weeds
in youtube weather documentaries.

There is still blu tac on the wall
where the last group hung
their educational psychology.
What would you stick there?

I cancelled hypnotherapy.
My wife was ill.
I panicked about false memories.
We had no car.
I ran to the shade.
I drew a picture of empty space.
I lived among the ants.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 2

Before the storm blew in
we were sticky in the door frames
trying to catch flight like spiders
on a gust of upward escape

What would you stick
like funnel clouds in the empty landscape
of my childhood
Some folks keep going back there

Convinced that the shade of memory
Can be removed one pinch of dirt at a time

– Carrie Adams

Question & Answer 1 – Carrie Adams

Question 1

This nebula of petals,
this mint leaf tea planet,
this shimmer of libraries –
……..lock these scars
…… the back of
…… ambulance.

This arc from Antarctica
bloomed in crimson butter
flies the shape of Budapest –
……..and we are human
……..because we can see
……, ark and arcs.

Are we stardust or dead
skin cells? Believe in cardiac
arrests and police profiling –
……..the worst parts of
…… and blue
……..exist in a vacuum.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 1

I like the tiny places.
Squeeze into, slough off
When you asked me to perch in the rain,
I thought robin, I thought cardinal,
I made wiry feet toward the puddle.

When I came back
and bent down toward the handprint
in the sidewalk, I saw how large
we had all become.

The concrete shimmers
with our past forgotten gum.
I don’t know how we make
these things up, ourselves over.

One day the train doors opened
and I made a little nook
between the strangers.

– Carrie Adams