We build above ground now,
touch the earth and lift.
What a beautiful house,
crown molding, wood floors,
but at the edges the
unforgotten blemishes are
The portrait wall is full of faces that aren’t yours,
why don’t you ever hang your own artwork?
Ink bursts on the tongue,
spit out the truth,
does it have to be beautiful to count?
All those women in front of your mother’s mirror
with their hair pulled tight to scalp,
the pain, the pretty.
What does it mean to get up out of the mud?
That we are dirty, that we are alive,
that we will wield this language
in whatever direction we want.
Fuck it, bring the earth inside,
fuck it, write your secrets in the margins,
fuck it, look yourself in the mirror every morning
and tell it, Ma,
I made it,
I made it.
A.M. Kennedy, “The Ugly Wallpaper & Every Other Useful Thing That Came Cheap”
Almost is the crush, velvet and warm rose,
we sit on the rooftop trading time in pocket memories,
and if we buzz where our fingers are almost but not touching,
there’s no one here to see the spark.
In the elliptical orbit we are almost,
we are potential with a leash around its throat,
the imminent choke.
Forgive us the timeline we never make,
the things we never create,
the way our hands never fold into each other.
In a thousand years
we spill so much inevitability into the coffee,
dilute it to a brown cosmic swirl
We unfurl, fall apart to paper memory,
trace each other’s palms in dreams that are
but never really there.
am kennedy, “Almost”
You give me clutter-rust,
my heart chokes on gasoline fumes,
these lungs flutter like broken birds
beneath Pisonia trees.
Am I hunger or am I food?
Are we lovers in the end,
or just codependency?
am kennedy, “The flutter”