I leave the coffee to stain my mug
so I can remember the days I couldn’t wake.
I always carry three books with me:
one poetry, one fiction, one factual.
I leave three books beside my bed:
one poetry, one fiction, one to read to womb.
My body is a chamber of broken Cadillacs
and wasted tumours.
How about your body, Devin,
what fills it to the brink?
Your catalogue reads like a manuscript
of mother nature and father time.
Somebody is always watching us,
in the cracks of the corners of the rooms.
There are too many Russian dolls in this shell
and I can barely breathe through the layers.
– Aaron Kent
I once wrote
A body can be the song you mouth to yourself
& think of this often – how
a body can be so close to the soul
& so far away, the way
it is not always air that fills us,
but often music. But, but, but…
it is the air, too, isn’t it?
I open my mouth & contract my throat
& all this breath you’ve breathed out
comes floating in. We share this
together. Me, you. You, me.
The world a mess
of all you haven’t taken with you
taken by me. I would say
I love it, what’s in my body,
but I want you to love it too.
You can have it. At night
I stare at what light the dead leave
& wonder how it can be possible
to give so much & no longer
exist. Wouldn’t that be the dream?
To rest these eyes & in such resting
be another dreamer’s sun.
My body aches. Look,
I’m forgetting again to breathe.
Here, you can have this one.
– Devin Kelly