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
Home for me is never home, Devin,
not even an idea of security or a lock
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
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
and I’m not alone in filling it with two lives
in one. A beating heart beating a beating
– Aaron Kent
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
The poetic interview with Devin Kelly is in progress.