Question & Answer 3 – Devin Kelly

Question 3

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

Answer 3

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

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Question & Answer 2 – Devin Kelly

Question 2

Home for me is never home, Devin,
not even an idea of security or a lock
……..to pick.

I like my bedroom to look devoid of life,
so when my wife is restless in sleep, dreaming
……..of our child

pressing her liver, I hear an audience
studying our every move, a standing ovation
……..muffled

in womb. It reminds me of all the luck I have
in this homeless home. Do you live with
……..all of your

mess, or do you build a lonely ark? I want
you to tell me the world is full of these
……..ghost rooms

and I’m not alone in filling it with two lives
in one. A beating heart beating a beating
……..heart.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 2

There is only one light in my room though some nights
the moon’s pale glow comes twirling through the leaves.

Life is what is illuminated. The old coffee left molding
in the mug. The books, stacked & marked. Every day

I try to lessen my belongings I find myself longing
more. What do you keep with you & is it more than

what you keep beside? I know the body is a kind
of home, the heart full of chambers, the doors of us

opening to even more doors. Maybe we are each
in the other. In bed, before I turn my body into dark,

I make a catalogue of all that exists in light. Old clothes.
Notes. Pictures I haven’t framed. I want to believe

someone is watching always. That, for every night
I give in to dark, I am not alone. Maybe we each

live inside the other, a litany of nesting dolls, our bodies
holding the other, one-by-one, through the hours.

– Devin Kelly

Question & Answer 1 – Devin Kelly

Question 1

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 electric.
Dream tonic.
Dream whiskey.
Dream on it.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 1

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