Kristin Kelly

Poem Neither about Sex Nor Death

All of it is here that should not be. A
summer motel, coffee, bible, cable,
our set of big books. Lord Byron over
his peony. Then Countess Blessington
on her knees. She hears all of it: not his
want, hers. All the da da da da da and
hectic red, a book she’s bought but never
read because she hates endings as much as
the lute. Shelley is painting his face with
crayolas: a whole box of terror blue.
You draw a boat. It breaks all over your
notebook. Love, we are drowning. Here’s the part
where you wave. This is not about any
thing. It is comfort. I take off my old
high heels. Remember that picture you drew—
the one with the la la’s and the heart and
the ocean. You colored out of the lines.
I will still sleep with you tonight.